ROMA  BEATA 


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ROMA   BEATA 


Terrace  of  the  Palazzo  Rusticucci 

Jfrom  »  pencil  drawing  in  tbe  Collection  of  Miss  Mabel  Norman 


ROMA  BEATA 

Letters  from  the  Eternal  City 


BY 

MAUD    HOWE 

AUTHOR  OF   "a   NEWPORT  AQUARELLE,"    "THE   SAJT  R08ARI0  RANCH," 
"MAMMON,"  "PHILLIDA,"    "LAURA  BRIDOMAN,"   ETC. 


With  Illustrations  Jrom  Drawings  by  John  Elliott 
and  from  Photographs 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 

1909 


Copyright,  190S,  1904, 

By  J.    B.    LlPPINCOTT   &    Ck)MPANT. 

Copyright,  1904, 
By  The  Century  Co. 

Copyright,  1904, 
By  America  Company. 

Copyright,  1904, 
By  The  Outlook  Company. 

Copyright,  1904, 
By  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 


All  rights  reserved 


S.  J.  Pabkhili.  &  Co.,  Boston,  U.  S.  Ju 


To  My  Sistee 
LAURA  E.  RICHARDS 


CONTENTS 


Paok 

I.  Looking  foe  a  Home 1 

II,  CaDENABBIA WOERISHOVEN PfARRER   SE- 
BASTIAN Kneipp 31 

III.  A  Visit  to  Queen  Margaret 50 

IV.  A  Presentation  to  Leo  the  Thirteenth  .  76 
V.  In  the  Abruzzi  Mountains 97 

VL  SCANNO 119 

VII.  ViAREGGio  —  Lucca  —  Return  to  Rome  .     .  142 

VIII.  Roman  Codgers  and  Solitaries     ....  163 

IX.  Black  Magic  and  White  —  Witch's  Night  187 

X.  ISCHIA 215 

XI.  Old  and  New  Rome  —  Palestrina    .     .     .  239 

XIL  The  Anno  Santo 264 

XIII.  The  Queen's  Visit 292 

XIV.  Strawberries  of  Nemi 314 

XV.  The  King  is  Dead.    Long  live  the  King  338 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


Page 
Terrace  of  the  Palazzo  Rusticucci Frontispiece 

From  a  pencil  drawing  in  the  Collection  of  Miaa  Mabel  Norman 

The  Appian  Way 30 

From  a  photog^ph 

The  Madonna  of  St.  Agostino 72 

From  a  photograph 

The  Pincian  Gate  and  Wall  of  Rome  ..,,.,.       76 

From  a  photograph 

Roccaraso 98 

From  a  pencil  drawing 

Marta,  a  Vestal  of  the  Abruzzi 107 

From  a  pencil  drawing  in  the  Collection  of  Mrs.  Whitman 

The  Tiber,  at  the  Ponte  Nomantana 158 

From  a  photograph 

A  Lost  Love 202 

From  a  red  chalk  drawing  in  the  Collection  of  Mr.  Thomas  W.  Lawaon 

Ischia 216 

From  a  photograph 

The  Lady  K 250 

From  a  red  chalk  drawing  in  the  Collection  of  Mr.  Thomas  W.  Lawson 

Dante 311 

From  a  pastel  drawing  in  the  Collection  of  Mrs.  David  Kimball 

The  Palace  of  the  Orsini  at  Nemi 318 

From  a  photograph 


ROMA    BEATA 


LOOKING  FOR  A   HOME 

Rome,  January  20,  1894. 

Rome,  which  we  reached  Thursday,  is  veiy  much 
changed  since  I  last  saw  it ;  imagine  the  Foun- 
tain of  Trevi,  all  the  principal  streets,  even  many 
of  the  smaller  ones,  gleaming  with  electric  lights  ! 

We  at  once  engaged  an  apartment  bathed 
with  sun  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  sun  from 
early  morning  till  late  afternoon.  But  when 
we  moved  into  it,  the  day  was  overcast.  The 
apartment  which  had  been  tropical  with  the  sun 
when  we  hired  it  was  arctic  without  it ! 

We  interviewed  our  padrona  (landlady),  an 
immense  woman,  and  demanded  a  fire. 

"  But,  Excellency,  it  is  not  good  for  the 
health." 

We  told  her  we  understood  our  health  better 
than  she,  and  reminded  her  that  fires  had  been 
promised. 


ROMA  BEATA 

"  Excellency,  yes,  if  it  makes  cold  ;  but  to-day 
it  makes  an  immense  heat.  ZHaminef  this  saloon 
is  a  furnace." 

The  thermometer  could  not  have  stood  above 
forty-two  degrees,  but  she  was  not  to  be  bul- 
lied or  cajoled.  Then  J.  went  out  and  bought 
wood  "  unbeknownst "  to  her  and  lighted  a  fire 
in  the  parlor  grate.  All  the  smoke  poured 
into  the  room.  The  padrona  charged  with  fixed 
bayonets. 

"  Gentry,  we  are  ruined !  Not  is  possible  to 
make  fire  here." 

"  Why  did  you  not  say  so  before  ?  " 

"  Who  could  figure  to  himself  that  gentry  so 
instructed  would  do  a  thing  so  strange  ? " 

These  people  are  so  polite  that  this  was  an 
insult,  meant  as  such,  taken  as  such.  In  the 
end  J.  prevailed.  A  small  fireplace  was  un- 
earthed from  behind  the  wardrobe  in  our  bed- 
room. He  worked  like  a  stoker,  but  the  badly 
constructed  chimney  swallowed  all  the  heat. 
For  three  days  I  was  never  warm,  save  when 
in  bed.  Monday  we  forfeited  three  months' 
rent,  paid  in  advance,  and  went,  tame  and 
crestfallen,  to  a  pension,  a  sadder  and  a  wiser 
pair. 

% 


LOOKING  FOR  A  HOME 

Palazzo  Saotpo  Croce,  March  10,  1894. 

The  warm  weather  has  come,  bright  and 
beautiful,  and  here  we  are  again,  in  a  furnished 
apartment,  but  with  what  a  difference  I  These 
pleasant  rooms  belong  to  Marion  Crawford. 
That  princely  soul,  having  let  his  lower  suite 
to  the  William  Henry  Hurlburts,  lends  us  the 
pretty  little  suite  he  fitted  up  for  the  "  four-in- 
hand,"  as  he  calls  his  quartette  of  splendid 
babes.  We  are  to  remain  here  till  our  own 
apartment  is  found.  We  have  bought  our  linen, 
blankets,  batterie  de  cuisine,  and  other  beginnings 
of  housekeeping,  and  yesterday  —  am  I  not  my 
mother's  own  child  ?  —  I  gave  a  tea-party  for 
two  American  girls.  They  wanted  to  see  some 
artists,  so  I  asked  the  few  I  know,  Apolloni 
(well  named  the  big  Apollo),  Sartorio,  and  Mr. 
Ross,  he  who  spoke  of  the  cherubs  in  a  certain 
Fra  Angelico  picture  as  "  dose  dear  leetle  angles 
bimbling  round  in  de  comer."  I  invited  also 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Muirhead  ;  he  is  the  author  of  the 
American  Baedeker,  the  editor  of  all  English 
Baedekers.  I  expected  to  see  him  bound  in  scar- 
let instead  of  dressed  in  hodden-gray.  We  had 
much  tea,  more  talk,  and  most  panettone  —  half 
bread,  half  cake,  with  pignoli  and  currants  ;  when 

s 


ROMA  BEATA 

fresh,  it  seems  the  best  thing  to  eat  in  the  world, 
until  you  get  it  the  next  day  toasted  for  break- 
fast, when  it  is  better. 

My  rooms   are   still   ablaze  with   yestetday's 
flowers.     1  bought  for  two  francs  in  the  Piazza 
di  Spagna  what  I  thought  a  very  extravagant 
bunch  of  white  and  purple  flags  and  white  and 
purple  lilacs,   like  those   in  our   old  garden   at 
Green  Peace.     Helen  came  in  a  little  later  with 
a  bunch  twice  as  big  and  a  glow  of  pink  peonies 
added  ;  in  the  middle  of  the  tea-drinking  Sartorio 
arrived  with  a  gigantic  armful  of  yellow  gorse. 
Spring  is  really  here  I     The  trees  are  all  green 
now.     When  we  first  came  the  stone  pines  were 
the   chief  glory  ;  now  the  Pincio   is  gay  with 
snow-white   maple  trees   and   flowering  shrubs, 
mostly  white  and  purple.     Is  there  any  rotation 
of  color  in   flowers  ?     It  has   often   struck   me 
there  must  be !     Sometimes  everything  in  blos- 
som seems  to  be  lilac,  another  season  it  is  all 
yellow,  then   all  red.     I   notice  the  reds  come 
last,  in  midsummer  chiefly,  —  has  this  to  do  with 
the  heat  ?     Max  Nordau  —  cheerful  person  that, 
by  the  way  —  says  that  red  is  hysterical  peoples' 
favorite  color ;   violet,  melancholiacs'.     There  is 
a  boy  who  sits  all  day  under  my  window  selling 


LOOKING  FOR  A   HOME 

bird  whistles,  on  which  he  warbles  pleasantly. 
He  is  never  without  a  red  rosebud  worn  over 
his  left  ear.     I  wonder  if  he  is  hysterical ! 

Now  that  the  good  weather  has  come,  I  often 
go  to  the  churches  to  hear  the  music.  At  the 
festa  of  Our  Lady  of  Good  Counsel  the  scholars 
of  the  BUnd  Institution  furnished  the  music  — 
a  good  band,  though  not  equal  to  that  of  the 
Perkins  Institution,  in  Boston.  The  church  was 
crammed  with  very  dirty  people  and  many  chil- 
dren. One  mother  carried  a  strapping  yearling, 
a  splendid  angel  of  a  child  ;  three  toddlers  clung 
to  her  skirts,  and  a  newborn  baby  howled  in  the 
grandam's  arms.  After  a  time  the  two 'women 
exchanged  babies,  the  grandam  took  the  heavy 
youngster,  the  mother  took  the  new-born,  and, 
squatting  down,  calmly  suckled  it.  The  music 
was  marred  by  the  wailing  of  this  and  other 
infants,  but  no  one  seemed  to  mind.  After  all, 
it  was  the  only  way  the  women  could  have  heard 
mass  ;  the  Uttle  ones  were  too  young  to  be  left 
alone  at  home. 

The  Romans  are  devoted  to  their  children, 
although  their  ways  are  not  our  ways ;  no 
woman  of  the  upper  class  nurses  her  child, 
baby  carriages  are   unknown,  and  swaddling  is 

5 


ROMA  BEATA 

still  in  vogue,  at  least  with  the  lower  classes. 
I  know  a  young  American  lady,  married  to  a 
Roman,  who  imported  a  perambulator  for  her 
first  baby.  The  balia  (wet-nurse),  a  superb 
cow  of  a  woman,  refused  to  trundle  it,  saying 
she  was  not  strong  enough,  although  I  saw  her 
carry  a  heavy  trunk  upstairs  on  her  head  while  I 
was  calling  at  the  house  !  The  baby  is  now  a 
big  eighteen-months-old  boy ;  every  day  the 
balia  goes  out  to  give  him  an  airing,  canying 
him  in  her  arms  !  Here,  leading-strings  are 
facts,  not  symbols.  In  Trastavere,  where  I 
went  sightseeing  yesterday  with  Helen  —  peer- 
ing, as  she  calls  it,  —  the  best  sight  we  saw  was 
a  darling  red-haired  baby  in  leading-strings 
stumbling  along  in  front  of  its  grandmother. 
In  the  division  of  labor,  the  care  of  the  chil- 
dren falls  upon  the  grandmother ;  the  mother's 
time  is  too  valuable ;  if  she  is  not  actually  em- 
ployed in  earning  money,  there  is  the  heavier 
work  of  the  household  to  do.  To  use  the  pet 
phrase  of  the  boarders,  "  things  are  different  here 
from  what  they  are  at  home." 


6 


LOOKING  FOR  A  HOME 

Palazzo  Rusncucci,  July  10,  1894. 

Here  we  are  in  a  home  of  our  own !  One 
moonlight  night  J.  came  in  with  the  news  that 
he  had  found  the  very  apartment  he  had  been 
<  looking  for ;  if  I  did  n't  mind,  we  would  go  and 
see  it  at  once.  Naturally,  I  did  n't  "  mind." 
We  took  a  botte  and  threaded  the  network  of 
narrow  streets  that  lead  down  to  the  Tiber. 
We  crossed  the  river,  a  huge  brown  flood,  silver 
where  it  swirled  about  the  piers ;  drove  past  the 
Castle  of  St.  Angelo  to  the  dingy  old  palace  at 
the  junction  of  the  Borgo  Nuovo  and  the  Piazza 
San  Pietro.  He  would  not  let  me  stop  to  look 
at  anything,  but  hurried  me  through  the  en- 
trance, along  the  corridor,  past  a  courtyard  vnth 
orange  trees  and  a  fountain  where  the  nightin- 
gales were  singing,  up  a  high,  wide  stairway 
guarded  by  recumbent  statues  of  terra-cotta 
Etruscan  ladies,  to  a  rusty  old  green  door.  We 
pulled  a  bell-rope  and  set  a  bell  jangling  inside. 
The  door  was  opened  by  the  esattore  (agent), 
a  brisk  young  man,  who  carried  a  three-beaked 
brass  lamp  by  whose  hght  we  explored  the 
apartment.  They  hurried  me  so  that  I  could 
only  see  that  the  high  ceilings  were  of  carved 
wood,   that  the  windows  were  large,  and   that 

7 


ROMA  BEATA 

I  liked  the  shape  of  the  rooms.  J.  kept  saying, 
"  Wait  till  you  see  the  terrace."  The  terrace, 
or  house-top,  is  a  flat  roof;  it  covers  the  whole 
length  and  breadth  of  the  apartment,  and  belongs 
exclusively  to  it.  A  parapet  three  feet  high  runs 
around  it ;  at  one  end  is  a  small  room  with  a 
second  smaller  terrace  on  its  roof,  reached  by  a 
flight  of  stone  steps ;  at  the  other  end  is  a  high 
wall  with  a  little,  open  belfry  on  top.  The  view 
is  sublime ;  you  look  down  into  the  Square  of 
St.  Peter's  with  the  Egyptian  obelisk  in  the 
middle,  Bernini's  great  colonnades  on  either  side, 
the  Church  of  St.  Peter's  at  the  end,  with  the 
Vatican,  a  big,  awkward  mass  of  a  building, 
behind  it,  and  in  the  foreground  the  twin  foun- 
tains sending  up  their  columns  of  powdered  spray. 
On  the  left  loomed  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo  ;  it 
was  hght  enough  to  see  the  time  by  the  clock. 
You  can  imagine  all  the  rest,  —  the  city  spread 
out  like  a  map,  the  dark  masses  of  trees  mark- 
ing the  Pincio  and  the  Villa  Borghese,  the 
Campagna,  the  Sabine  and  the  Alban  hills  be- 
yond, Mt.  Soracte,  our  familiar  friend,  on  the 
left,  over  and  under  all  the  soft  deep  notes  of 
the  big  bell  of  St.  Peter's  throbbing  out  the 
Angelus. 

8 


LOOKING   FOR  A  HOME 

The  bargain  was  struck  that  very  night !  But 
when  we  went  over  the  next  day  J.  let  the 
cat  out  of  the  bag  by  saying,  "  1  was  afraid  if 
you  went  by  daylight,  and  saw  what  an  old 
ruin  it  was,  you  would  never  consent  to  our 
taking  it!"  ' 

It  did  look  discouraging.  The  last  tenant,  a 
monsignore,  who  lived  here  thirty  years,  never 
allowed  the  owners  to  make  any  repairs  ;  he  said 
he  could  not  be  bothered  with  workmen.  He 
died  a  short  time  ago,  leaving  a  red  rose  growing 
in  a  wooden  half-barrel  on  the  terrace.  The 
owner  of  the  palace,  Signor  Mazzocchi,  armorer 
to  the  Pope,  waited  till  the  new  tenant  should 
turn  up  before  making  any  changes.  The  pal- 
ace was  built  in  1661.  It  has  gone  to  wrack 
and  ruin,  but  it  is  a  magnificent  old  wreck.  It 
stands  on  the  site  of  the  house  the  great  archi- 
tect Bramante  built  for  Raphael,  one  pier  of 
which  is  still  standing,  built  into  our  walls.  It 
once  belonged  to  a  Cardinal  Rusticucci,  whose 
arms  are  cut  in  stone  over  one  of  the  doors ; 
he  was  of  the  same  family  as  the  gentleman 
Dante  met  in  one  of  the  lower  circles  of  the 
Inferno. 

"  Ed  io,  che  posto  son  con  loro  in  croce,  Jacopo 

9 


ROMA  BEATA 

Rusticucci  fui ;  e  certo  lajiera  moglie  piii  cKaltro 
mi  nuoce^ 

"  And  I  who  am  placed  on  the  cross  with  these 
was  Jacob  Rusticucci.  It  is  certain  my  proud 
wife  harmed  me  more  than  another  ! " 

The  palace  seems  to  be  called  indifferently 
Rusticucci,  Accoramboni,  and  Mazzocchi.  We 
hesitated  for  some  time  between  the  three  names  ; 
finally  the  Dantesque  name  carried  the  day,  and 
I  have  had  Palazzo  Rusticucci  engraved  upon 
our  cards.  It  is  considered  very  plebeian  here 
to  have  your  address  on  your  cards,  but  I  cling 
to  my  American  ideas. 

The  monsignore's  red  rose  on  the  terrace 
looked  so  lonely  that  I  went  last  Wednesday 
to  Rag  Fair  in  the  Campo  dei  Fiori  and  bought 
a  pink  ivy  geranium,  some  pansies,  and  a  white 
carnation  to  keep  it  company ;  they  were  ab- 
surdly cheap ;  flowers  are  a  necessity  here,  not 
a  luxury.  I  also  bought  a  sack  of  earth,  some 
flower-pots,  and  a  watering-can.  I  got  up  at 
dawn  the  next  morning  and  potted  my  plants ; 
hard  work  I  When  J.  came  up  at  seven  o'clock 
for  coffee,  there  they  stood  in  a  row  at  the 
end  of  the  terrace.  It  was  a  real  surprise ;  I 
was   very  proud,   till  I   found   that  he  had  to 

10 


LOOKING  FOR   A  HOME 

do  the  work  all  over  again,  just  because  I  had 
not  put  anything  in  the  bottom  of  the  flower- 
pots to  keep  the  earth  from  running  out  when 
they  are  watered  I  J.  says  we  must  have  more, 
many  more,  plants.  Sunday  he  was  pottering 
about  all  day  with  the  plumber.  We  are  to 
have  another  quarto  of  water  laid  on,  the  pipes 
carried  to  the  upper  terrace,  and  a  vast  Flor- 
entine flower-pot  —  you  know  the  kind,  terra- 
cotta —  for  the  receiver.  Some  day  we  mean  to 
have  a  marble  sarcophagus  in  its  place.  They 
took  the  beautiful  long  zinc  bath-tub  for  the 
tank  ;  this  was  a  blow,  but  Pompilia  and  Filo- 
mena  found  it  too  convenient !  Every  one  who 
has  seen  it  on  the  upper  terrace  says,  "  Do  you 
take  your  bath  up  here?"  It  is  not  easy  to 
laugh  at  this  inevitable  joke ;  I  wait  for  it  now 
from  each  new  visitor,  and  feel  reUeved  to  get  it 
over. 

The  terrace  is  our  poetry,  and  we  have  parlous 
good  prose  downstairs.  The  walls  are  three  feet 
thick,  built  to  keep  out  both  heat  and  cold  ;  the 
whole  house  is  paved  with  red,  white,  and  black 
tiles  in  geometrical  designs.  The  old  green  door 
opens  into  a  vestibule  leading  to  the  anticamcra^ 
which  has  two  big  windows.     The  salotto  opens 

11 


ROMA  BEATA 

from  this ;  it  has  a  splendid  sei  cento  carved 
wood  ceiling,  and  pale  nile-green  doors  with 
gilt  mouldings  and  handles.  The  dining-room, 
square  and  high,  leads  from  the  salotto ;  beyond 
is  a  charming  room  with  a  fresco  of  Apollo  driv- 
ing the  horses  of  the  sun.  This  will  be  our 
guest-room  when  we  have  a  guest ;  it  is  now  my 
den.  On  the  other  side  of  the  salotto  is  our  yel- 
low bedroom :  the  nicest  room  I  have  ever  lived 
in ;  it  has  a  vaulted  stone  ceiling.  Do  you  re- 
member Tennyson's  poem  ? 

"  O  darling  room,  my  heart's  delight. 
Dear  room,  the  apple  of  my  sight. 
With  thy  two  couches  soft  and  white. 
There  is  no  room  so  exquisite. 
No  little  room  so  warm  and  bright, 
Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write. " 

Well,  ours  is  just  like  that,  only  it  is  not 
"httle"  but  very  large.  These  rooms  are  in 
the  front  of  the  palace,  looking  down  into  the 
Piazza  San  Pietro  and  facing  mezzo  giorno,  due 
south.  They  all  have  fireplaces  (J.  put  them  in 
himself  with  the  aid  of  Lorenzo),  the  sun  pours 
into  them,  and  if  one  can  be  warm  in  Rome,  in 
winter,  we  shall  be.  From  the  passage  outside 
the  kitchen  a  small  stone  stairway  leads  up  past 
a  tiny  oratory  to   the  terrace.     The  oratory   is 

12 


LOOKING  FOR  A  HOME 

charming  in  shape,  not  quite  round,  more  like 
an  ellipse  with  two  marble  seats.  The  floor 
slopes  to  the  middle,  where  there  is  a  grating  to 
let  the  rain  out,  for  it  is  open  to  the  sky ;  its 
dome  is  a  minute  replica  of  the  Pantheon's. 
The  monsignore  must  have  sat  here  to  read  his 
"  hours  " ;  there  is  nothing  to  distract  the  mind, 
no  sound  save  the  bells  of  St.  Peter's,  nothing 
to  see  but  the  sky  and  clouds  overhead  and  the 
low-flying  rondinelle  swooping  across  and  across 
at  sunset. 

In  the  salotto  (Filomena  sometimes  calls  it 
the  salottino,  to  my  rage)  there  is  a  handsome 
sofa  and  pair  of  armchairs,  a  fine  black  oak  table, 
and  my  Benares  tray  and  stand  for  tea.  The 
rest  of  the  furniture  is  very  meek  and  cane- 
bottomed.  We  have  in  this  room  a  lovely  land- 
scape of  the  Campagna  by  Sartorio,  a  silver-point 
drawing  by  Hughes,  the  EngUsh  artist,  and  a 
cast  from  the  Alhambra. 

July  28,  1894. 

Thirty-six  degrees  centigrade  for  the  last  three 
days  I  Those  clever  children  of  yours  wiU  know 
how  hot  that  really  is.  I  don't  know,  but  people 
mop  their  brows  a  good  deal,  and  say  that  the 

13 


ROMA  BEATA 

heat  of  this  summer  is  "  unprecedented  and  in- 
credible." It  troubles  me  very  little ;  once  or 
twice  only  I  have  felt  rather  tired  by  it,  and  I 
fancy  it  is  sharpening  up  my  temper  a  Uttle  ;  but 
1  eat  and  sleep  hke  several  tops,  only  I  can't  do 
much  of  anything  out  of  doors.  Yesterday  I 
went  to  see  the  friendly  Countess  C,  who  has  a 
small  city  garden  with  shade-trees,  under  which 
we  sat  and  consumed  iced  wine  and  cakes,  and 
talked  about  the  Pope.  She  is  an  American 
and  very  Black  in  her  poUtics,  though  her 
husband  is  a  White  and  fought  for  Victor 
Emmanuel. 

At  the  suggestion  of  Mr.  Richard  Greenough 
I  have  adopted  the  Roman  scheme  of  hfe  and 
divide  every  day  into  two.  I  am  up  at  five, 
have  my  coffee,  and  read  my  paper  on  the 
terrace.  At  eight  the  rooms  are  hermetically 
sealed ;  outside  shutters,  windows,  and  inside 
blinds  are  closed.  A  melancholy  twihght  per- 
vades everywhere,  except  in  my  den,  where  I 
keep  one  eye  of  the  house  open  to  read,  write, 
cipher,  and  catch  fleas  by.  I  go  out  early,  do  my 
errands,  make  my  visits,  and  try  to  be  at  home 
by  ten ;  sometimes  I  am  delayed  till  twelve. 
Luncheon  is  at  one ;  after  this  the  whole  house- 

14 


LOOKING  FOR  A  HOME 

hold,  the  whole  city,  takes  its  siesta.  From  two 
till  four  Rome  sleeps  I  Down  in  the  piazza  the 
workmen  lie  at  full  length  on  the  pavement, 
their  arms  under  their  heads.  Cabmen  curl  up 
inside  their  cabs,  horses  .sleep  between  the  shafts, 
even  small  boys  sleep  I  At  first  I  would  none 
of  it.  I  only  yielded  when  I  found  that  the  sol- 
diers in  the  barracks  opposite  are  obliged  by  the 
military  regulations  to  take  a  daily  siesta, 

"  And  does  it  not  seem  hard  to  you. 
When  all  the  sky  is  clear  and  blue. 
And  I  should  like  so  much  to  play. 
To  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day  ?  " 

Soon  after  four  o'clock  the  sea-breeze  comes 
up  and  Hfe  begins  again.  By  five  I  am  ready 
for  tea  on  the  terrace.  Sometimes  we  go  instead 
to  Ronzi  and  Singer's  for  granite^  a  sort  of  sher- 
bet made  of  snow  from  the  mountains  flavored 
with  coffee  or  lemon,  very  delicious  and  cooling 
to  the  blood.  By  this  time  the  streets  are  filled 
with  people.  The  Roman  girls  look  charming 
in  their  pretty  Hght  summer  dresses  ;  pink  mus- 
lin seems  to  be  the  fashion  this  season.  Dinner 
gets  pushed  back  later  and  later ;  we  really  must 
reform.  Last  night  we  did  not  sit  down  till 
quarter  to  nine.     The  nights  are  divinely  cool; 

15 


ROMA  BEATA 

we  go  to  the  terrace  from  the  dinner-table,  and 
sit  there  till  bedtime  under  the  friendly  stars. 

To-day  I  have  been  driving  in  the  Villa  Pam- 
fih  Doria ;  for  proof  accept  this  pink  petal  from 
the  Egyptian  lotus  in  the  lake.  I  never  saw 
them  growing  before.  They  are  wonderful ;  the 
pads  immense,  with  a  green  velvety  surface  on 
which  the  water  rolls  up  into  crystal  balls  ;  the 
flower,  when  it  is  closed,  large  and  pointed  like  a 
classic  flame,  does  not  lie  on  the  water,  as  I  sup- 
posed, but  stands  erect,  some  eight  or  ten  inches 
above  it.  My  uncle  and  a  few  other  privileged 
people  are  allowed  to  drive  here  even  when  the 
villa  is  closed  to  the  public.  We  always  meet 
a  modest-looking  old  couple  in  a  coup^ ;  he  is 
blind  and  has  a  long  white  beard ;  she  wears  a 
bonnet  like  a  bat  and  carries  a  green  fan  with 
which  she  screens  her  eyes.  Cardinal  A.,  his 
secretary  walking  beside  him,  two  attendants 
following,  is  always  there,  and  several  other 
priests  ;  except  for  these,  an  occasional  gardener, 
and  the  peacocks,  we  have  the  glorious  old  place 
all  to  ourselves.  There  are  deer  and  Jersey 
cows  and  the  lake  and  the  pretty  formal  garden 
in  front   of  the   house ;   it  has   the   feeling  of 

*  16 


LOOKING   FOR  A   HOME 

being  private  property  —  a  gentleman's  place. 
The  name  "  Mary,"  clipped  in  box  on  the  hill- 
side in  memory  of  a  beloved  wife,  an  EngHsh 
Princess  Doria,  gives  me  the  same  sort  of  satis- 
faction as  the  Taj  Mahal  and  the  tomb  of 
Cseciha  Metella. 

Your  last  letter  clamors  for  details  of  our 
housekeeping.  In  certain  respects'  it  is  idyllic. 
For  comfort  I  have  never  known  its  equal.  We 
hdve  two  women,  Filomena,  the  Umbrian  house- 
maid and  waitress,  and  Pompilia,  my  black- 
browed  Tuscan  cook  (Romans  do  not  make  good 
servants).  These  two  do  the  work  easily  with 
the  help  of  old  Nena,  the  fifth  wheel  to  our 
coach.  Helen  calls  her  the  footman ;  she  does 
all  our  errands,  carries  my  notes,  and  when  I  am 
hard  pressed  for  time  leaves  our  cards.  Pompilia 
brings  me  her  accounts  every  morning,  so  much 
for  beef,  bread,  butter,  spaghetti,  wine,  oil,  and 
salt.  I  buy  my  fruit  and  groceries  myself.  So 
much  custom  allows.  It  is  more  signorile,  how- 
ever, to  leave  all  buying  to  your  servants,  but  a 
certain  latitude,  of  which  I  have  availed  myself, 
is  allowed  to  artists.  Store-rooms  and  ice-chests 
are  unknown  ;  we  live  from  hand  to  mouth,  buy- 
ing each  day's  provisions  "  fresh  and  fresh."  The 
2  17 


ROMA  BEATA 

butchers  shut  up  shop  at  eleven  in  the  morning 
and  do  not  open  again  till  six  in  the  evening. 
Business  begins  at  the  shriek  of  dawn  ;  the  first 
sound  I  hear  in  the  early  gray  is  the  sharpening 
of  the  butcher's  knife  in  the  shop  opposite. 
They  keep  the  meat  in  cool  "  grottos "  under- 
ground. How  they  manage  without  ice  is  a 
mystery ! 

The  Borgo,  our  quarter,  —  Leonine  City  is  its 
best  name,  —  is  not  fashionable,  and  the  street- 
cries  are  still  in  full  force  here.  The  earliest 
is  the  Acetosa  water,  ^' Fiasche  fresche  aqua 
'Cetosaf'  I  hear  it  in  my  dreams,  plaintive, 
melodious.  "  Flasks  of  fresh  Acetosa  water ! " 
Then  comes  the  rumbling  of  the  cart,  the  hee- 
hawing  of  the  donkey,  and  the  remarks  of  the 
man  to  the  donkey.  This  is  what  he  said  to- 
day :  "  I  call  all  the  apostles  to  observe  this 
infamous  beast  of  a  donkey:  may  he  die 
squashed,  this  son  of  a  hangman  I  "  I  do  assure 
you  he  is  the  dearest  donkey,  pretty  and  willing, 
but  rather  restive  about  stopping.  The  Acetosa 
Spring  is  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  city,  out 
Viale  Parioli  way.  It  has  been  in  use  since  the 
days  of  the  Csesars,  perhaps  since  the  days  of 
the   Tarquins.     The   Romans  take  a  course  of 

18 


LOOKING  FOR  A  HOME 

Aqua  'Cetosa  every  summer;  six  weeks  is 
the  orthodox  time ;  it  is  "cooling  to  the  blood." 
It  costs  two  cents  a  flask. 

Signor  Augusto  Rotoli  has  written  out  for  me 
the  notes  of  several  of  'the  cries.  In  the  Acetosa 
score  he  has  indicated  the  blows  of  the  driver, 
the  kicks  of  the  donkey,  and  finally  the  patter- 
patter  of  the  poor  little  beastie's  hoofs  over  the 
rough  paving-stones  of  the  Borgo  Nuovo : 


VENDITORE  DELL'  AQUA  ACETOSA. 

Nel    silenzio  del  mattino,  all'  alba,  in  distanza,  e  poi  piu 
presso  alia  residenza  —  questo  e  un  efFetto  raolto  caratteristico.^ 


Tenore. 

f^  p   f^  fp     '^ 

f)     n       ^^/^ 

■^'                         m-^ 

y 

1     1^  • 

\ 

rj  .     m 

i        1 

/L 

1         1 

\        \ 

- 

-^ 



A 1— 

J j 

'S^  „     ' 

Fre  -  sea, 


Fre 


sea, 


Fa  -  qua  -  Ace  -  to  -  sa 


W 


kaaaaa  ....  Dando  una  hastonata  al  povero  asinello  che  aka 
la  groppa.  e  cammina  cost.  Moderato.  I  paasi  delV  asinello.  ^ 


Wy^ny?i-i-m 


Siferwna  e  poi  D.  C. 


tirando  calei. 


'  In  the  stillness  of  the  morning  at  dawn,  in  the  distance,  and  then 
nearer  to  the  residence  —  this  lias  a  very  characteristic  eflfect 

19 


nOMA  BEATA 

At  seven  o'clock  a  herd  of  twenty  goats  is 
driven  into  the  piazza  by  two  dark  satyrs  with 
shaggy  thighs  and  flashing  eyes,  peasants  in 
goat-skin  trousers  they  are  from  the  Campagna. 
The  children  crowding  round  them  in  the  piazza, 
and  I  looking  down  from  my  terrace,  watch 
them  as  they  milk  their  yellow-eyed  beasts. 
Goats'  milk,  Pompilia  says,  is  good  for  con- 
sumptives and  delicate  babies;  I  have  not  yet 
learned  whether  she  considers  it  heating  or  cool- 
ing to  the  blood.  We  are  not  allowed  to  have 
broccoli,  carrots,  or  mutton  at  this  season  because 
they  are  heating,  and  are  obliged  to  have  more 
rennet  than  we  like  because  it  is  cooling ! 

After  the  goats  are  gone  the  blackberry  man 
comes.  I  like  his  cry  best  of  all,  it  is  in  a 
melancholy  minor,  "  More,  more,  chi  vuol  maniar 
le  more  ?  —  more  fate  !  "  "  Moors,  moors,  who 
wishes  to  eat  moors  ?  —  ripe  moors  I  "  Moors, 
if  you  please,  because  they  are  black  I 

IL  VENDITORE  DI   MORE. 

Se  suppone  una  voce  di  Tenore  aperta.  lunga  assai. 


E  li  brugno-li  f at  -  ti      e  chi  ma-gna  .  .  .  .  le  mo-re  , 


LOOKING  FOR  A  HOME 

"Buy  a  broom"  is  far  prettier  in  Italian  — 
Romanesque,  I  should  say  —  than  in  English. 
At  first  we  could  not  make  out  the  words,  the 
man  seemed  to  be  singing  "  O  I  so  far  away  ! " 
The  notes,  long  drawn-out,  pensive,  fascinating, 
Uke  a  sailor's  chantey,  haunted  us.  "  O  /  scopare, 
cdcd  aragni  /  "  "  O  brooms,  chase  the  spiders  I " 
The  latter  are  Turks'  heads  on  the  ends  of  long 
sticks,  necessary  for  ceilings  twenty  feet  high  like 
ours. 

LO  SCOPARO. 

Nella  folia  del  giomo  nel  frastuono  di  carrozze  e  veicoli 
questo  tono  minore  6  molto  rimarchevole.^ 


feA^ 


1^ 


?=»^ 


=5=t 


ana 


S 


Lo  scopa-ro  a  -  ja  -  re, 


Scac-cia  ra-gno 


VENDITORE  DI  PESCE. 

Con  quesC  altro.  ^  " 


i^ 


c  r  r  1^ 


Pe   -   see     vi  -  vo 


ca  -  la  -  ma  -  ret  -  ti 


"  Pesce  vivo,  calamaretti  !  "     "  Live  fish,  little 
inkstands  I "  The  calamaretti,  small  cuttle-fish,  are 

1  In  the  crowd  of  the  day,  in  the  tumult  of  carriages  and  carts,  this 
minor  air  is  very  noticeable. 

21 


ROMA  BEATA 

called  little  inkstands  because  of  the  black  liquid 
—  sepia,  is  n't  it  ?  —  which  they  eject  when  at- 
tacked. Fried  a  golden  brown  and  served  with 
fresh  soles  as  a  garnishing  they  are  too  good  for 
common  people. 

The  umbrella  mender  is  a  bit  of  a  poet,  he 
makes  his  cry  rhyme.  "  Ombrellare.  Chi  ha 
ombrelle  per  raccomodare  ?  "  "  The  umbrella 
man.     Who  has  umbrellas  to  mend?" 

"  O  ricotta,  ricotta  !  "  When  I  hear  this  I  run 
to  the  window,  wave  my  handkerchief,  and  the 
ricotta  man  brings  up  a  fresh  goat's-milk  cheese 
in  a  green  wicker  basket ;  it  is  a  sort  of  spirit- 
ualized cottage  cheese.  When  quite  new,  eaten 
with  maritozzi  warm  from  the  bakery  downstairs, 
it  makes  a  better  luncheon  than  I  can  get  at  the 
Cafe  di  Roma. 

"  Alice  / "  (pronounced  a-lee-chee)  "  ancho- 
vies," is  a  strident  cry  which  we  hear  at  intervals 
all  day.  Anchovies  are  a  staple  food  with  the 
lower  classes.  At  home  I  only  remember  them 
as  an  appetizer  at  some  brutally  long  dinner 
parties.  The  people  eat  anchovies  with  bread 
or  with  macaroni ;  they  are  cheap,  strong  of 
flavor,  and  a  little  of  them  goes  a  long  way. 
We  have  them  with  crostine  and  provatura  for 

22 


LOOKING  FOR  A  HOME 

luncheon  sometimes.  Provatura  is  cheese  made 
of  buffalo's  milk.  Little  crusts  of  bread  with  al- 
ternate layers  of  provatura  and  anchovies  skew- 
ered together  like  chickens'  livers  and  toasted 
make  a  pleasant  dish.  • 

One  cry  I  do  not  like,  '^ aqua  vita!"  short 
and  sharp  in  the  early  morning,  as  soon  as  the 
newsboys  begin  to  shout  "Don  Quichotte" 
"  Popolo  Romano"  "  Corriere"  this  cry  comes 
like  an  antiphony.  "Aqua  vita!''  "  Water  of 
life  ?  "     Water  of  death  I  brandy. 

We  sent  all  the  way  to  the  English  bakery  in 
Via  Babuino  for  our  bread  till  the  day  I  met 
Count  Luigi  Primoli  in  the  baker's  shop  on  the 
ground  floor  of  our  palace  ;  he  was  tucking  a 
brown  paper  parcel  into  his  pocket.  There  had 
been  a  function  at  the  Vatican.  He  had  been  to 
pay  his  respects  to  Leo  XHI.,  and  on  his  way 
home  had  stopped  to  buy  what  he  told  me  were 
the  best  maritozzi  in  Rome.  The  baker  is  an 
important  person ;  he  owns  his  shop  and  four 
caged  nightingales,  which  sing  divinely.  We 
now  buy  our  bread,  flour,  macaroni,  and  oil  from 
him,  and  he  changes  all  the  neat  fifty-franc  notes 
we  get  from  the  banker's  ;  he  can  always  be 
trusted  to  give  honest  money. 

23 


ROMA  BEATA 

I  soon  found  out  that  in  all  domestic  affairs  I 
must  learn  Italian  methods  ;  it  was  useless  to  try 
and  teach  Pompilia  and  Filomena  our  ways. 
After  the  tussle  over  the  washing  I  gave  it 
up.  Set  tubs,  wash-boards,  wringing-machines  ? 
Nothing  of  that  sort.  On  Sunday  evening  the 
clothes  are  put  in  a  large  copper  vessel,  a  basket- 
work  cover  is  laid  on  top,  over  which  a  layer  of 
wood-ashes  is  spread.  Boiling  water  is  then 
poured  on  slowly,  percolating  a  little  at  a  time 
through  the  clothes,  which  are  bleached  by  the 
lye  of  the  ashes ;  this  is  the  bucato.  When 
they  have  stood  long  enough  in  this  witch's 
cauldron  the  clothes  are  carried  down  to  the 
basement  and  washed  with  cold  water  in  the 
Vast  stone  fountains  of  the  palace,  which  we 
have  the  right  to  use  one  day  in  the  week. 
The  women  employ  a  stiff  brush  and  the  queer- 
est green  soap  to  scrub  the  hnen  ;  if  we  have  any 
table-cloths  left  at  the  end  of  six  months,  we 
shall  be  lucky.  The  American  clothes-pins  and 
hne  I  sent  for  are  neatly  displayed  in  the  kitchen 
as  curiosities.  We  "  hang  out"  on  an  iron 
clothes-line  to  which  the  linen  is  tied  by  small 
pieces  of  twine,  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  the 
Empress  Faustina.     We  are  no  better  than  our 

24 


LOOKING  FOR  A   HOME 

mothers  !     The  clothes  are  sent  out  to  a  stiratrice 
to  be  ironed. 

Our  cooking  fuel  costs  us  one  dollar  a  week. 
Saturday  morning  the  carbonaro  arrives,  carrying 
on  his  back  a  huge  sack  of  charcoal,  for  which  I 
pay  five  francs.  I  am  told  it  is  ten  cents  too 
much,  but  one  must  pay  something  for  being 
^'Jbrestieri."  The  cooking  is  done  over  four 
little  square  holes  filled  with  charcoal,  set  in  a 
table  of  blue  and  white  tiles ;  a  big  hood  over- 
head carries  off  the  fumes ;  quite  the  prettiest 
kitchen  range  I  ever  saw !  The  charcoal  is 
kindled  by  means  of  paper,  little  fagots,  and  a 
turkey-feather  fan  plied  by  old  Nena.  I  Hke 
my  kitchen,  it  is  full  of  such  queer,  nice  pots  and 
pans  ;  a  row  of  deceitful  copper  saucepans  hang 
along  the  wall,  always  bright,  never  used,  but 
brushed  over  with  white  of  egg,  which  acts  like 
a  varnish  to  protect  the  polish;  a  big  white 
marble  mortar,  a  long  copper  kettle  for  the  fish, 
and  the  green  and  yellow  bowls  and  mixing 
dishes  are  my  favorite  utensils.  I  foresee  that 
the  old  brass  scaldino  J.  picked  up  at  the  junk 
shop  will  some  day  serve  as  an  ornament  to  the 
front  hall  at  home.  We  have  a  brace  of  warm- 
ing-pans  and   the   queerest  metal   box  for  live 

25 


ROMA  BEATA 

charcoal.  When  you  want  a  warm  bath  you 
fill  your  tub  with  cold  water,  put  hot  coals  in 
this  box,  screw  it  up  tight,  and  put  it  into  the 
water,  which  it  finally  heats.  Prehistoric  ? 
Fortunately,  we  prefer  our  baths  cold  !  Pom- 
piUa  begged  some  shps  from  our  geraniums, 
planted  them  in  empty  kerosene  cans,  and  now 
the  kitchen  window  is  bright  with  flowers. 
Everything  grows  so  quickly  here  that  it  is 
easier  to  have  plants  than  not. 

August  16,  1894. 

The  parroco  (parish  priest)  has  called.  Filo- 
mena  came  all  of  a  flutter  to  summon  me.  The 
visit  has  raised  us  in  our  servants'  eyes ;  they 
have  never  before  lived  with  pagans  or  Protes- 
tants. I  like  the  parroco.  He  is  a  fine  man  of 
forty-five,  evidently  a  peasant,  but  possessing 
that  assured,  courteous  manner  the  priests  all 
have  ;  it  is  wonderful,  the  bearing  and  polish  the 
Church  gives  them.  The  parroco  was  rather  dis- 
turbed at  being  offered  a  cup  of  tea  at  five  in 
the  afternoon,  —  it  was  stupid  of  me  to  have  it 
brought  in  ;  the  Anglo-Saxon  association  of  eat- 
ing and  drinking  with  sociability  is  hard  to  get 
rid  of,  —  but  he  made  a  long  visit  and  gave  me 

26 


LOOKING  FOR  A  HOME 

good  advice  about  the  local  charities.  The 
gnawing  poverty  all  about  us  is  the  drop  of 
gall  in  our  honeypot.  Our  door  is  literally 
besieged  by  our  poor  neighbors  and  by  begging 
monks  and  nuns.  At  the  parrocds  suggestion 
we  now  divide  what  we  can  afford  to  give  be- 
tween the  benevolent  society  which  looks  after 
the  sick  and  old,  the  Trinitarian  order  of  monks, 
and  the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor.  Besides 
these  a  man  calls  on  Saturday  morning  from  the 
"  Holy  Family  "  and  carries  away  a  big  bag  filled 
with  robaccio, — trash,  —  things  that  at  home 
would  go  into  the  ash-barrel. 

General  Booth  must  have  got  his  idea  of  the 
Household  Brigade  from  some  such  institution, 
and  I  am  learning  new  lessons  in  economy  every 
day!  Nothing  is  wasted  here,  not  the  tiniest 
scrap  of  food  nor  the  most  disreputable  cast- 
off  garment.  My  servants  watch  for  my  old 
shoes ;  three  pairs  of  eyes  are  fastened  on  them 
daily.  You  know  how  much  more  precious 
old  shoes  are  than  new,  —  especially  Appleton's, 
which  come  all  the  way  from  Boston  ?  Well, 
yesterday  I  was  shamed  into  giving  away  my 
most  cherished  old  boots  and  am  wearing  to-day 
a  horrid  stiff  new  pair.     Every  night  a  bundle  is 

27 


ROMA   BEATA 

smuggled  out  of  the  house  full  of  odds  and  ends 
of  food  which  support  a  certain  poor  family 
whose  grandmother  has  attached  herself  to  us. 
Her  perquisites  are  the  old  newspapers,  empty 
bottles,  stale  cake  and  bread,  sour  milk,  the  very 
orange  and  lemon  peels,  and  the  leavings  from 
the  servants'  table.  I  am  so  thankful  there  is 
enough  to  fill  the  poor  old  blue  market  handker- 
chief, but  it  would  never  do  for  me  to  show 
knowledge  of  its  existence  ;  that  would  spoil  the 
sport. 

You  ask  about  the  comparative  expense  of  life 
here.  People  who  would  be  called  well  off  at 
home  are  rich  in  Rome ;  people  we  should  con- 
sider poor  can  live  here  with  much  comfort  and 
some  luxury.  For  instance,  cabs  cost  sixteen 
cents  a  course  for  two  people,  or  forty  cents  an 
hour.  I  pay  my  seamstress  fifty  cents  a  day, 
and  my  cook  seven  dollars  a  month ;  a  clever 
young  Italian  doctor,  modern,  up-to-date,  well 
educated,  is  quite  satisfied  with  a  dollar  a  visit. 
Good  hotels  (not  the  two  or  three  most  extrava- 
gant) charge  twelve  fi^ancs  (about  two  dollars  and 
forty  cents)  a  day.  Meat,  chicken,  eggs,  fish, 
fruit,  and  vegetables  are  cheap ;  but  all  imported 
groceries  are  horribly  dear  by  reason  of  the  fifty 


LOOKING   FOR  A  HOME 

per  cent,  duty  they  must  pay.  Coffee  costs 
fifty  cents  a  pound,  sugar  twenty,  American 
kerosene  oil  is  sold  in  five-gallon  cans  for  three 
dollars  —  fancy  I  we  pay  more  for  petroleum 
than  for  olive  oil  or  for  wine.  Postage  stamps, 
salt,  and  tobacco  —  all  government  monopolies 
—  are  sold  only  at  tobacconists'.  Milk  is  not 
cheap ;  the  best  in  Rome  comes  from  Prince 
Doria's  herd  of  Jerseys.  Unfortunately,  we  are 
not  on  his  milkman's  route;  our  milk  comes 
from  the  Villa  Ada,  which  belongs  to  an  Ameri- 
can lady,  a  daughter  of  Rogers,  the  sculptor.  It 
is  very  good  milk,  quite  different  from  that  we 
get  at  a  pinch  from  the  vaccaria  round  the 
corner,  where  in  a  dark,  dreadful  dungeon  stable 
pale  cows,  with  long  untrimmed  hoofs,  pass  their 
melancholy  lives.  Pompilia  is  in  despair  because 
we  will  drink  our  milk  unboiled ;  when  I  saw 
the  prisoner  cows  I  understood  why.  Italy  is  a 
poor  country,  and  poor  people  can  live  comforta- 
bly here.  Rents,  service,  and  food  are  aU  cheap  ; 
it  may  be  a  paltry  reason  for  abandoning  one's 
country  that  one  can  get  more  pork  for  one's 
shilling  elsewhere,  but  it  is  a  potent  reason. 
Here  in  Rome  prices  are  all  (scaled  to  the  differ- 
ent pockets.     I  pay  less  at  the  same  shops  for 

29 


ROMA   BEATA 

the  same  things  than  my  rich  friends  pay,  but 
some  things  even  the  rich  cannot  secure  ;  certain 
conveniences  —  rapid  transit,  steam  heat,  "rapid 
deUvery,"  express  service  —  cannot  be  purchased, 
and,  what  is  really  serious,  good  schooling  is  not 
to  be  had  at  any  price,  so  few  Americans  with 
children  to  educate  settle  in  Rome.  But  for 
men  and  women  there  is  no  school  like  Rome. 
Willy  nilly,  I  learn  something  every  time  I  go 
out  of  doors,  whether  it  be  to  the  Appian  Way, 
the  Via  Sacra,  the  Forum,  or  to  the  Corso. 
The  yellow  Tiber,  the  fountains,  the  nightingales 
of  the  Villa  Medici,  the  ilex  trees  of  the  Bor- 
ghese,  seem  to  whisper  the  secrets  of  the  city 
with  the  mighty  past,  the  mother  and  law-giver 
of  nations. 


so 


II 

CADENABBIA  —  WOERISHOVEN  —  PFARRER 
SEBASTIAN   KNEIPP 

Casenabbia,  Lake  of  Como,  August  29,  1894. 

I  FEAR  the  vagabond  instinct  is  the  strongest 
one  I  have,  for  I  was  glad  to  leave  Rome  a  week 
ago  —  to  leave  my  Rome,  think  of  it  I  with  its 
galleries  all  to  myself,  and  its  churches,  and  no 
tourists ;  still,  the  fleas  had  become  too  vicious, 
and  all  the  "  lame  ducks "  were  upon  me  — 
shabby  gentlemen  attached  to  the  Vatican,  seedy 
artists  with  portfolios  of  unsold  sketches,  decayed 
gentlewomen  professing  Dante  and  lacking  pupils 
— ;/or  the  foreign  colony,  by  which  they  live,  has 
dissolved,  and  we  were  the  last  Anglo-Saxons 
left  in  town  except  some  young  secretaries  of  the 
British  Embassy. 

Unless  one  has  seen  the  Sistine  Chapel  at  noon 
on  a  blazing  August  day  one  has  not  really  seen 
it.  The  figure  of  Adam  receiving  the  touch  of 
Life  from  the  Creator  is,  for  me,  the  highest 
expression  of  the  art  of  painting.     The  hours  I 

81 


ROMA  BEATA 

spent  across  the  way  at  the  Vatican  and  St. 
Peter's  made  up  for  any  small  inconveniences  of 
the  heat  I  may  have  suffered.  If  one  is  to  pass 
a  summer  in  a  city  instead  of  in  your  green 
Maine  vv^oods,  many-fountained  Rome  is  the 
city  of  all  others !  There  are  no  mosquitoes, 
— literally,  we  have  neither  a  bar  nor  a  netting 
in  the  house  —  the  nights  are  cool,  the  citizens 
are  too  poor  to  go  away  in  any  appreciable  num- 
ber, so  there  is  none  of  that  desolate  feeling 
which  makes  London  a  Desert  of  Sahara  in 
August,  and  Paris  worse.  But  the  heat  of  the 
last  week  of  August  drove  us  to  the  ItaUan  lake 
country,  and  here  we  are  at  Cadenabbia  —  from 
Ca'  di  Nabbia,  house  of  Nabby,  an  old  woman 
who  once  lived  in  a  little  hut,  or  ca,  on  the  shore. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  on  earth. 

I  am  writing  before  breakfast.  Outside  my 
window  is  the  Lake  of  Como  with  its  mountains. 
On  one  side  there  is  deep  purple  shadow,  the 
other  palpitates  with  light.  Soon  we  shall  have 
coffee  and  green  figs  in  the  pergola  below,  under 
the  canopy  of  grape-leaves.  Cadenabbia  is  all 
villas  and  hotels  ;  behind,  half  way  up  the  hill,  is 
the  village  of  Griente,  to  reach  which  we  climb 
steep  streets  of  steps  paved  with  round  cobbles. 

32 


CADENABBI A  —  WOERISHOVEN 

Griente  is  all  gray  stone,  with  delicious  arches 
spanning  the  narrow  ways.  The  syndic's  house 
stands  apart ;  his  fat  wife  and  pretty  daughter 
seem  always  to  be  sitting  sewing  before  the  door. 
The  padre ^  a  dear  old  man,  showed  us  his  garden 
and  called  our  attention  to  the  trellis  he  had  con- 
trived for  his  grapes.  We  must  taste  his  wine, 
made  from  these  Muscats  —  made,  I  warrant,  by 
his  own  hands.  We  did  taste  it  and  found  it 
excellent. 

"  Sapete,  Signori,"  he  said,  "  un  goccettino 
di  vino  e'  buona  per  lo  stomaco  (Know,  Signors, 
that  a  little  drop  of  wine  is  good  for  the 
stomach)."     St.  Paul  was  of  his  way  of  thinking. 

J.  has  been  seized  with  a  fury  of  sketching ; 
he  goes  ev^ry  day  to  Griente  and  draws  and 
draws  !  The  old  women  and  the  children  make 
much  of  him.  Yesterday  he  heard  one  boy  say 
to  another,  "  It  must  be  very  hard  to  paint  and 
smoke  a  pipe  at  the  same  time." 

^^ Ma  che!''  said  the  other,  "he  only  does  it 
for  bravado ! " 

The  other  day  he  frescoed  a  lad's  nose  with 
vermilion  like  a  Cherokee  brave's  ;  since  then  all 
the  boys  in  the  district  torment  him  for  the  ends 
of  his  pastels. 

3  99 


ROMA  BEATA 

This  is  one  of  the  prosperous  provinces  of 
Italy.  The  town  of  Como  has  silk  manufac- 
tories, where  the  best  Italian  silk  stockings  are 
made  and  the  nicest  of  the  piece  silks.  There  is 
a  feeling  of  comparative  bien  etre  in  all  classes 
which  adds  much  to  one's  own  comfort.  The 
flood  of  travellers  that  pours  through  here  brings 
a  certain  prosperity,  though  I  incline  to  think  it 
a  specious  one.  Everybody  asks,  "  What  would 
Italy  do  without  the  tourists  ?  "  Perhaps  if  the 
people  were  not  so  busy  making  silly  knicknacks 
to  sell  to  tourists,  they  would  pay  more  attention 
to  cultivating  their  land.  Improved  agricultural 
methods  are  what  Italy  needs  above  all  else  ;  she 
has  the  finest  soil  and  climate  in  Europe  ;  she 
could  supply  half  the  continent  with  fruit,  oil, 
and  wine  if  she  had  a  little  more  common  sense ! 
I  have  seen  oranges  and  lemons  rotting  under  the 
trees  at  Sorrento,  and  in  Calabria  I  have  seen 
grapes  used  to  enrich  the  soil !  This  is  not  be- 
cause the  Italians  are  "lazy"  —  "lazy  Italians  !" 
there  never  was  a  more  unjust  reproach  borne  by 
any  people  —  the  Italian  peasants  are  the  hardest- 
worked  people  I  know.  They  tug  and  toil  just 
to  put  bread  in  their  mouths  ;  they  almost  never 
taste  meat.     Last  Sunday  afternoon  at  the  rail- 

34 


CADEN  ABBI A  —  WOERISHO  VEN 

road  station  in  Rome  the  floor  and  platform  were 
covered  with  sleeping  peasants  waiting  for  the 
train  to  take  them  to  their  work.  Each  man 
carried  round  his  neck  seven  loaves  of  coarse 
bread  strung  on  a  piece  of  rope,  his  week's 
rations,  —  dry  bread,  with  a  "  finger  "  of  wine  to 
moisten  it  if  he  is  lucky  I  It  is  evident  that 
they  are  willing  to  work,  and  yet  Italy  is  miser- 
ably poor !  Somebody  is  blundering  somewhere, 
I  am  too  rank  an  outsider  to  know  who.  Some 
foreign  writers  lay  every  ill  Italy  endures  to  the 
heavy  taxes  the  government  has  imposed.  I  am 
not  so  sure  that  what  Italy  has  got  in  the  last 
quarter  century  is  not  wcwsth  the  price  she  has 
paid  for  it.  There  are  abuses,  steals,  a  bureau- 
cracy, and  a  prodigious  megalomania  (swelled 
head),  but  the  people  are  learning  to  read  and 
WTite  I 

That  reminds  me  of  what  I  heard  Sir  William 
Vernon  Harcourt  say  at  a  luncheon  in  Rome. 
Some  one  asked  where  he  was  staying.  "  I  am 
stopping  at  the  Hotel  Royal  opposite  to  the 
Ministry  of  Finance,"  he  said.  "  Strange  that 
Italy  should  have  the  largest  finance  building  in 
the  world  and  the  smallest  finances  I "  The  folly 
of  putting  up  these  mammoth  pubUc  buildings, 

35 


ROMA  BEATA 

these  dreadful  monuments  to  Victor  Emmanuel, 
Garibaldi,  Cavour,  and  the  other  great  men  who 
brought  about  the  Risorgimento,  is  appalling ; 
but  Italy  is  realizing  her  mistakes ;  she  is  learn- 
ing at  an  astonishing  rate. 

WoERisHovEN,  Bavaria,  September  20,  1894. 

I  have  been  banished  by  bronchitis  from  the 
Eden,  Cadenabbia,  and  have  come  to  Father 
Kneipp's  Water-Cure,  near  Munich,  although  it 
is  a  little  late  in  the  season  to  take  the  "  cure." 
It  is  de  rigueur  before  seeing  Father  Kneipp  to 
consult  a  regular  practitioner,  who  pronounces 
whether  or  no  you  are  a  fit  subject ;  people  with 
weak  hearts  are  not  allowed  to  take  the  cure. 
I  paid  a  small  sum,  became  a  member  of  the 
Kneipp  Verein,  received  a  blank-book  — in  which 
the  medico  wrote  out  a  diagnosis  —  and  a  ticket 
stating  the  hour  of  my  appointment  with  "the 
Pfarrerr  as  Father  Kneipp  is  called.  I  arrived 
a  little  before  time  at  an  immense  barrack  of  a 
place  like  the  waiting-room  at  a  railVoad  station. 
The  door  to  the  consulting-room  was  guarded  by 
two  functionaries  who  read  aloud  our  numbers 
as  our  turn  came,  looking  carefully  at  the  tickets 
before  letting  any  one  enter. 

"  Einundzwanzig I "  (twenty-one),  and  I  passed 


CADENABBI A  —  WOERISHOVEN 

into  the  long  room  and  stood  before  F'ather 
Kneipp,  like  a  prisoner  at  the  bar.  He  is 
one  of  the  most  powerful-looking  men  I  have 
ever  seen ;  his  eyes  pierced  me  through  and 
through.  I  handed  him'  the  book  with  the  diag- 
nosis. He  read  it,  grunted,  ruminated,  bored 
me  with  a  second  auger  glance,  then  dictated  my 
course  of  treatment  to  one  of  his  secretaries,  a 
callow  cherico  who  sat  beside  him  at  a  long  table 
with  three  or  four  other  men. 

I  found  out  afterwards  that  they  were  young 
doctors  studying  his  methods.  Father  Kneipp 
spoke  to  me  rather  sharply,  going  directly  to  the 
point.  Never  mind  what, he  said,  I  deserved  it, 
I  shall  not  forget  it,  and,  like  Dr.  Johnson,  "  I 
think  to  mend  I  "  "  Come  again  in  a  fortnight," 
he  said  suddenly.  The  consultation  was  over 
and  I  was  ushered  out.  I  had  not  reached  the 
door  when  *'  Zweiimdzwanzig"  a  crippled  boy, 
a  far  more  interesting  case  than  mine,  came  in. 

Father  Kneipp  dislikes  women,  ladies  espe- 
cially, me  in  particular,  because  no  one  had 
warned  me  not  to  wear  gloves,  a  veil,  and  a 
good  bonnet.  If  I  had  put  an  old  shawl  over 
my  head  and  looked  generally  forlorn,  he  would 
have  been  kinder.     Isn't  that  dear?     His   be- 

37 


ROMA  BEATA 

nevolence  is  of  the  aggressive  type ;  he  grudges 
time  spent  on  rich  people,  —  is  only  reconciled 
to  them,  in  fact,  because  they  offer  up  gifts  in 
return  for  health,  and  in  this  way  a  great  sanita- 
rium has  grown  up  where  the  prince  is  nearly 
as  well  treated  as  the  peasant  —  but  it  is  the 
peasant  folk,  his  own  people,  that  the  Pfarrer 
loves !  This  is  the  only  truly  democratic  com- 
munity I  have  ever  lived  in,  —  a  pure  democracy 
governed  by  a  benevolent  despot  I  The  despot 
is  past  seventy  years  old ;  he  has  an  aldermanic 
figure,  a  rough  peasant  head,  and  extraordinary 
bristling  white  eyebrows,  standing  out  a  good 
two  inches  from  his  pent-house  brows.  His 
coloring  is  like  an  old  English  country  squire's, 
—  brick-red  skin,  bright  blue  eyes,  and  silver  hair. 
He  is  a  prelate ;  so  his  rusty  black  cassock  is 
piped  with  purple  silk,  and  he  wears  a  tiny 
purple  skull-cap.  His  two  inseparables  were 
with  him,  a  long  black  cigar  and  a  white  Spitz 
dog.  .  .  . 

The  fortnight  is  almost  up,  the  cough  gone, 
the  \Titality  come.  Yesterday  I  went  to  hear 
one  of  the  Father's  health  talks  in  the  big,  open 
hall,  free  to  all.     Good,  practical  common  sense 

38 


CADENABBIA  —  WOERISHOVEN 

was  what  he  gave  us,  nothing  new  or  startKng, 
—  just  the  wholesome  advice  of  a  very  wise  old 
man.  Enthusiasm  and  common  sense  are  his 
weapons.  After  it  was  over  we  waited  to  see 
him  come  out.  A  group  of  bores  hung  on  to 
him  ;  one  sentimentaUst  caught  his  hand  and 
tried  to  kiss  it,  which  so  enraged  the  Pfarrer 
that  he  gave  the  fellow  a  slap ! 

Such  people  I  If  you  could  only  hear  them 
testify  to  their  cures,  like  lepers  and  the  halt  in 
the  Bible  I  Tell  Anagnos  that  two  blind  men 
say  they  have  been  cured  here  this  summer. 
The  applications  were  general,  not  local,  save 
bathing  the  eyes  in  warm  straw  water.  Sounds 
simple,  does  n't  it  ?  One  ^ad  been  blind  four 
years,  the  other  longer.  Atrophy  of  the  nerves 
of  the  eye  was  the  trouble  in  both  cases.  The 
younger  man  was  going  away  in  despair  after  a 
few  weeks'  treatment.  He  drove  to  the  station, 
got  into  the  train ;  suddenly  he  saw  somethi7ig 
moving,  cars  going  in  the  other  direction  I  He 
got  out  again,  returned  to  Woerishoven,  per- 
severed with  the  treatment,  and  now  sees  I 

A  South  African  couple  sit  at  my  table  ;  they 
have  come  all  the  way  from  Cape  Town.  For 
seventeen  long  years  the  husband  suffered  with 

39 


ROMA  BEATA 

nervous  dyspepsia,  whatever  that  may  be.  One 
summer  at  Woerishoven  has  cured  him.  Does 
this  sound  Hke  Paine's  Celery  Compound  ?  I 
learn  as  much  from  the  other  patients  as  in  any 
other  way.  Herr  Schnell,  a  German  New 
Yorker,  —  a  hardware  man,  —  and  his  wife  are 
my  best  friends.     She  first  spoke  to  me  at  table. 

"Dot  caffee  is  not  good  for  Ihnen.  Sie 
mussen   IVasser  trinkenJ" 

"  I  am  here  for  my  throat,"  I  told  her ;  "  I 
only  need  hardening ;  besides,  Father  Kneipp 
drinks  coffee." 

"Dot  Pfarrer  is  not  krank — sick,  how  you 
say?" 

My  dear,  she  actually  sent  the  coffee  away, 
and  forbade  the  kellner  ever  to  bring  it  to  me 
again  I  The  Schnells  and  I  patronize  the  same 
fruit-stand,  and  we  walk  up  and  down  after 
meals  together,  eating  grapes  out  of  brown  paper 
bags.  A  certain  forlorn  Pole  at  our  table  inter- 
ests me  ;  he  is  called  Count  Chopski,  or  some  such 
name.  His  nerves  are  shattered  by  too  much 
cigarette  smoking.  Frau  Schnell  and  I  came 
upon  him  in  the  wood  the  other  day,  sitting  be- 
hind a  big  tree  smoking.  Frau  Schnell  marched 
up  to  him,  took  the  cigarette  out  of  his  hand, 

40 


CADENABBIA  —  WOERISHO  VEN 

and  gave  him  a  scolding  for  smoking  on  the  sly. 
He  began  to  cry ! 

I  am  at  the  best  hotel,  which  is  of  a  simpUcity  I 
Big  people  and  Uttle  people  all  sit  down  to  the 
half-past-twelve  dinner ;  only  royalties  (there 
are  always  some  of  them  here)  are  allowed  to 
keep  any  state.  At  the  table  next  mine  a 
bishop  and  a  ballet-dancer  sit  side  by  side ;  it 
is  an  open  joke  to  all  of  us,  except  the  bishop, 
who  doesn't  know,  and  nobody  will  tell  him,  — 
I  call  that  nice  feeling.  In  all  my  Hfe  I  have 
never  met  with  such  simple  kindliness  as  there 
is  here ;  it's  a  sort  of  Kingdom-come  place, 
where  everybody  feels  respoyisible  for  everybody 
else.  Nothing  of  the  am-I-my-brother's-keeper 
feeling  here !  Of  course,  it  is  all  Pfarrer 
Kneipp ;  the  whole  atmosphere  of  place  and 
people  is  the  expression  of  a  great,  ardent  heart 
which  beats  for  sick  humanity,  which  rages 
against  all  shams  and  cruelties.  His  spirit  is  like 
my  father's,  the  atmosphere  here  more  like  that 
of  the  old  Institution  for  the  Blind  in  his  day 
than  anything  I  have  ever  known. 

When  Sebastian  Kneipp  was  a  young  student 
preparing  for  the  priesthood  (he  was  the  son 
of  a   poor  weaver)   his   health   broke   down   so 

41 


ROMA  BEATA 

completely  that  he  was  obhged  to  give  up  his 
studies.  One  day  in  a  convent  library  he 
stumbled  on  a  copy  of  Preissnitz's  book  on 
water-cure.  Impressed  by  the  theory,  he  per- 
suaded a  fellow-student  in  the  same  predicament 
as  himself  to  join  him  in  putting  it  into  practice. 
It  was  midwinter.  Tfte  two  lads  broke  the  ice 
from  a  neighboring  stream  in  which  they  took 
their  baths.  Heroic  treatment,  but  it  saved 
them  ;  both  soon  regained  their  health.  Kneipp 
finished  his  course  of  study,  took  orders,  returned 
to  his  native  village  of  Woerishoven  as  parish 
priest,  and  has  remained  here  ever  since. 

From  the  beginning  he  seems  to  have  been 
more  interested  in  curing  his  parishioners'  bodies 
than  in  saving  their  souls.  He  tells  of  being 
called  to  administer  the  last  sacrament  to  a  dy- 
ing man.  The  moment  he  saw  him  he  threw 
away  book  and  candle,  called  for  a  pail  of  water 
and  a  linen  sheet,  put  the  patient  in  a  wet  pack, 
and  saved  his  life.  For  many  years  the  Pfarrer 
only  practised  among  his  peasant  neighbors. 
Gradually  his  fame  spread  to  the  surrounding 
villages,  to  the  city  of  Munich,  to  other  cities. 
People  began  to  flock  to  Woerishoven  from  all 
over  Germany,   France,   Europe,   America,   till 

42 


CADENABBI A  —  WOERISHO  VEN 

finally  this  obscure  Bavarian  hamlet  has  become 
one  of  the  world's  great  Meccas  of  health. 

The  only  person  who  makes  any  effort  for 
society  is  an  Austrian  countess,  a  great  court 
lady.  She  has  taken  a  tiny  cottage,  brought 
her  own  cook,  maid,  and  butler  from  Vienna, 
and  tries  to  give  "  at  homes."  I  heard  some 
good  music  at  her  rooms  the  other  day.  Some- 
how she  had  managed  to  draw  together  half 
a  dozen  people  of  the  sort  that  can  make 
"  society "  in  the  prison  of  La  Jacquerie,  on 
an  ocean  steamer,  or  even  at  a  German  cure,  — 
an  Austrian  officer,  an  English  diplomat,  a 
French  abbe,  my  Polish  <<<jjount,  and  the  musi- 
cian, who  is  a  real  artist.  We  walked  with  the 
gods  for  that  hour;  the  pianist  gave  us  what- 
ever we  asked  for  —  Beethoven,  Schubert,  Cho- 
pin, Grieg.  It  was  a  Kaffec-klatsch  witliout  the 
coffee  (all  stimulants  are  forbidden,  even  tea 
and  coffee) ;  the  butler  handed  —  scornfully,  I 
thought  —  milk  and  grapes.  The  party  broke 
up  rather  hurriedly  at  sunset,  everybody  rushing 
away  to  get  their  Wassertreten  before  dark. 
Water  treading  is  to  wade  up  to  one's  knees 
in  one  of  the  streams  which  run  through  the 
fields.     Very  pleasant,  very  comic  —  fortunately, 

4,3 


ROMA  BEATA 

there  is  a  male  stream  and  a  female  stream; 
such  Chippendales  I  such  piano  legs  have  I  seen  I 
It  is  all  so  strange,  so  echt  deutsch!  The  countess 
does  not  harmonize  with  the  rest,  she  is  out  of 
key.  I  meet  her  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
her  feet,  head,  neck,  and  arms  bare,  strolling  over 
the  wet  grass,  a  lovely,  incongruous  vision;  her 
hair  dressed  and  "  ondulee  "  in  the  latest  fashion  ; 
her  parasol,  rose-colored  satin.  Now,  a  rose- 
colored  satin  parasol  at  Woerishoven  is  a  false 
note  in  a  pastoral  symphony.  She  worships 
Father  Kneipp ;  they  all  say  she  owes  him  her 
life ;  he  cannot  endure  her,  has  attacked  her 
almost  openly  in  his  talks ;  he  will  not  tolerate 
folly,  vanity,  or  worldliness ;  she  personifies  — 
oh,  so  charmingly  —  all  three  !  She  wears  the 
prescribed  dress  of  coarse  Kneipp  linen  with  such 
a  difference;  the  other  women  look  like  meal- 
sacks  ;  she  has  the  lines  of  a  Greek  goddess. 

In  the  early  morning  all  the  patients  walk 
barefoot  through  the  wet  grass.  Those  who  have 
been  here  longest  go  without  shoes  and  stockings 
aU  day.  I  am  told  it  is  delightful  to  walk  bare 
foot  in  the  new-fallen  snow.  Women's  skirts 
reach  only  to  the  ankles;  men  wear  knicker- 
bockers.    The  only  foot-gear  allowed  at  Woeris- 

44     ■ 


C ADENABBI A  -  WOERISHO  VEN 

hoven  is  the  leather  sandal,  classic  and  comfortable. 
Newcomers  begin  by  wearing  the  sandal  over  the 
stocking,  then  the  stocking  is  left  off  for  half  an 
hour  —  an  hour  —  finally  for  the  whole  day.  An 
hour  and  a  half  after  breakfast  and  dinner  a  cold 
douche  is  taken.  The  blitzguss  (lightning  douche) 
is  for  people  who  have  been  taking  the  cure  for 
some  time,  Xherumpf  (body)  douche  is  commonly 
prescribed  for  new  arrivals.  At  the  ladies'  bath 
attached  to  this  hotel  a  rosy  mddchen  plays  the 
hose  upon  the  patient  with  skill  and  firmness. 
That  ordeal  over,  the  dripping  victim  scrambles 
hastily  into  her  clothes — drying  and  rubbing  are 
forbidden  —  and  exercises  vigorously  until  she  is 
perfectly  dry  and  warm.  The  exhilaration  which 
follows  is  indescribable.  In  the  exercise-room 
attached  to  the  largest  bath*  I  have  seen  a  bishop 
capering,  a  princess  sawing  wood,  a  fat  American 
millionaire  pirouetting  with  a  balancing  pole. 
No  one  laughs;  it  is  too  grave  a  matter.  You 
dance  or  prance,  box,  saw  wood,  or  do  calis- 
thenics for  your  life  —  anything  to  get  up  the 
circulation ! 

Bavaria  is  enchanting,  Bavarians  are  delightful, 
not  at  all  like  other  Germans,  more  like  the  Tyr- 
olese,  —  simple,  kind,  deeply  rehgious.     I  cannot 

45 


ROMA  BEATA 

imagine  becoming  a  "convert"  in  Rome,  but 
here  it  would  be  easier.  Why  should  the  people 
of  Catholic  countries  have  better  manners  than 
those  of  Protestant  lands  ?  I  know  you  will 
bring  up  some  old  saw  about  sincerity  and  truth 
not  always  being  compatible  with  suavity  I  We 
can't  be  all  right  and  they  all  wrong,  "  and  yet 
and  yet"  it  is  known  that  the  Pope  keeps  his 
own  private  account  at  the  Bank  of  Protestant 
England !  Does  this  mean  that  he,  like  the 
Itahans  I  meet  every  day,  is  readier  to  trust  an 
Englishman  or  an  American  than  his  own 
countrymen  ? 

I  keep  thinking  of  him,  my  neighbor  in  Rome, 
the  Prisoner  of  the  Vatican,  shut  up  between  the 
walls  of  his  vast  garden  through  all  the  long 
summer.  I  used  to  look  at  his  windows  and 
wonder  if  he  felt  the  heat  as  much  as  I  did  in 
those  last  August  days  before  we  came  away  on 
our  villeggiatura.  No  villeggiatura  for  him,  he 
is  still  there  !  The  *'  Black  Pope  "  (as  the  power 
of  the  Jesuit  is  called)  is  his  gaoler,  —  not  good 
King  Humbert,  as  you  may  have  been  led  to 
suppose,  —  but  a  prison  is  a  prison,  whoever  the 
gaoler  may  be. 

I  am  learning  all  I  can  about  the  German 

46 


CADENABBI A  —  WOERISHOVEN 

Kaiser.  I  am  inclined  to  think  he  plays  the 
strongest  game  at  the  European  card-table.  The 
Bavarians  I  have  talked  with  seem  rather  bored 
by  him  ;  they  compare  him  unfavorably  with  poor, 
dear,  mad  King  Ludwig  and  his  father,  gi-eat  art 
patrons,  both. 

The  Prussians  think  their  Kaiser  the  greatest 
man  on  earth.  I  gather  from  one  of  their  number 
that  the  court  people  are  harried  by  him  beyond 
belief ;  he  is  forever  interfering  with  their  private 
affairs.  A  young  officer  with  an  English  wife 
and  English  tastes  set  up  a  tandem  in  Berlin  last 
winter.  He  received  a  message  from  the  Em- 
peror requesting  him  not  to  drive  one  horse  be- 
fore the  other  !  How  can  they  bear  it  ?  When 
we  first  ai-rived  the  Kaiser  had  lately  been  at 
Rome  and  people  were  still  telling  stories  of 
him.  The  Italians  are  not  over-fond  of  his  visits ; 
he  costs  a  great  deal  to  entertain  and  is  too  much 
given  to  dropping  in  to  tea !  He  stayed  at  the 
Quirinal  Palace,  the  guest  of  the  King.  As 
such,  etiquette  forbade  his  visiting  the  Pope. 
You  don't  suppose  he  let  a  little  thing  like  that 
interfere  I  On  a  certain  day  the  German  Ambas- 
sador to  the  Vatican  (you  understand  there  are 
two  Ambassadors,  don't  you,  one  to  the  King,  one 

47 


ROMA  BEATA 

to  the  Pope  ?)  received  notice  that  the  Emperor 
was  to  be  his  guest  for  the  morrow.  The  Am- 
bassador, a  bachelor  of  simple  tastes,  prepared 
for  the  imperial  visit  as  best  he  could.  The 
Emperor  arrived  with  a  portmanteau,  made  one 
of  his  lightning  changes,  and  came  down  to 
breakfast.  The  breakfast-table  was  a  bright 
spot,  a  friend  having  lent  a  fine  service  of  silver 
and  some  wonderful  Venetian  glass.  When 
the  Kaiser  saw  the  display  he  cried  out,  "  Mein 

Gott,  A ,  where  did  you   steal  all  these  ? " 

Rather  nice,  was  n't  it  ?  After  they  had  "  eated 
and  drinked,"  as  your  children  say,  a  carriage, 
come  all  the  way  from  Berlin,  with  horses,  har- 
nesses, and  servants  to  match,  drove  up  to  the 
door  and  carried  the  Emperor  off  to  call  on  the 
Pope !  It  would  not  have  been  etiquette  to  use 
the  Italian  royal  carriage  to  pay  the  papal  visit ! 
Prince  Doria's  ball  for  the  Kaiser  at  the  splen- 
did Palazzo  Doria — one  of  the  finest  of  the  Roman 
palaces  —  must  have  been  gorgeous  ;  the  picture 
gallery  was  a  blaze  of  glory,  —  you  remember 
there  the  great  Velasquez  portrait  of  Pope  Inno- 
cent X.  ?  —  all  the  jewels  in  Rome  were  present 
except  the  emeralds  of  the  Pope's  tiara.  When 
he  went  away  the  Kaiser  said  to  Prince  Doria, — 

48 


CADEN  ABBI A  —  WOERISHOVEN 

"  We  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you  and  the 
Princess  at  Potsdam,  but  we  cannot  show  you 
anything  Hke  this."  Handsome  of  him,  wasn't 
it? 

When  the  Kaiser  went  sightseeing  to  St. 
Peter's  he  admired  my  fountains.  Well  he 
might  I  After  watching  them  leap  and  play  for 
some  time  he  said,  "  Turn  them  off  now ;  it 's  a 
pity  to  waste  so  much  water."  Thrifty,  eh  ? 
Turn  off  Carlo  Maderno's  tireless  fountains, 
which  have  danced  in  the  sun  and  shimmered 
in  the  moon  nigh  three  hundred  years  I 


4>9 


Ill 

A  VISIT  TO   QUEEN  MARGARET 
> 

Pauvzzo  Rusncucci,  Rome,  December  7,  1894. 

Yesterday  was  sirocco.  In  consequence  the 
house  was  full  of  fine  sand  blown  up  from  the 
African  desert  and  everybody  was  out  of  humor ; 
it  is  curious  how  this  soft  wind  sets  people's 
nerves  on  edge.  In  spite  of  sirocco,  I  saw  the 
King  and  Queen  going  to  open  Parliament. 
The  King,  Prince  of  Naples,  and  two  officers 
were  in  the  first  crystal  and  gilt  coach,  the  Queen 
her  mother  the  Duchess  of  Genoa,  and  a  gentle- 
man of  the  court  in  the  next.  The  horses,  trap- 
pings, coachmen,  and  footmen  were  magnificent. 
There  were  three  servants  to  each  of  the  six  royal 
carriages  —  one  on  the  box,  two  standing  behind. 
They  wore  scarlet  coats,  white  wigs,  three-cor- 
nered hats,  and  pink  silk  stockings.  The  King 
and  the  Prince  were  in  uniform,  the  Queen  and 
her  mother  in  the  latest  French  fashion.  Little 
Gwennie  Story  (the  granddaughter  of  our  dear 
old  friends  the  William  Storys)  was  dreadfully 
disappointed  when  she  found  that  the  Queen  did 


A  VISIT  TO  QUEEN  MARGARET 

not  always  wear  a  crown.  I  sympathize  with 
her.  I  had  a  place  in  the  loggia  of  the  Palazzo 
Montecitorio  —  where  Parliament  meets  —  and 
saw  the  royalties  step  out  of  their  carriages  and 
enter  the  palace. 

January  21,  1895. 

Yesterday  I  went  to  the  annual  memorial 
mass  for  Victor  Emmanuel  at  the  Pantheon. 
Tlie  noble  old  temple  —  the  only  one  of  the 
Roman  buildings  which  has  been  in  continuous 
use  since  it  was  erected  in  the  first  century  — 
was  hung  with  black  and  cloth  of  gold.  A  huge 
catafalque  stood  in  the  middle,  directly  undfer 
the  open  dome ;  the  whole  interior  was  lighted 
by  classic  torches,  urns,  and  tripods  holding 
blue  fire.  A  tribune  had  been  constructed  for 
the  orchestra  and  singers.  The  music,  a  mass 
of  Cherubini's,  was  very  fine.  The  catafalque 
was  surrounded  by  a  double  line  of  men  who 
stood  facing  one  another  through  the  long  ser- 
vice. The  men  of  the  outer  circle  were  soldiers 
of  the  King,  the  men  of  the  inner  ring  were 
priests  of  the  Church,  for  Victor  Emmanuel  was 
a  good  Catholic  and  died  in  the  faith. 

I  was  in  Rome  for  the  first  time  in  1878,  the 
last  winter  of  his  Hfe.     I  often  saw  him  driving 

51 


ROMA  BEATA 

on  the  Pincio  or  in  the  Corso.  He  was  an  ex- 
traordinary-looking man,  fierce,  powerful,  bizarre, 
every  inch  a  king ;  loved  and  hated  accordingly. 
I  remember  the  intense  excitement  when  the 
two  old  enemies,  Pius  the  Ninth  and  Victor 
Emmanuel,  both  lay  dying  in  the  city  for  which 
they  had  fought.  Would  the  King  be  permitted 
to  receive  the  sacrament  ?  When  it  was  known 
that  the  Pope  on  his  death-bed  had  sent  his 
blessing  to  the  King  in  extremis  all  Rome  drew 
a  long  breath.  We  went  to  see  //  Re  Galan- 
tuomo  lying  in  state  in  the  capella  ardente  at  the 
Quirinal.  He  was  dressed  in  full  uniform  with 
high  riding-boots,  the  royal  robe  of  red  velvet 
and  ermine  was  spread  over  the  inclined  plane 
on  which  he  lay,  the  crown  and  sceptre  at  his 
feet.  The  chapel  blazed  with  candles ;  in  each 
of  the  four  corners  knelt  a  brown  Capuchin  monk 
telling  his  beads.  Signor  Simone  Peruzzi,  cham- 
berlain to  the  King,  watched  one  night  beside  the 
body.  He  was  alone  for  the  moment  when  he 
heard  a  deep  sigh,  saw  the  King's  breast  heave. 
The  matter  was  explained  by  the  physicians 
afterwards.  I  remember  to  this  day  the  thrill 
in  Peruzzi's  voice  when  he  spoke  of  the  dead 
King's  sigh. 

52 


A  VISIT  TO   QUEEN   MARGARET 

March  10,  1895. 

Mrs.  Potter  Palmer  and  I  have  had  a  private 
audience  with  the  Queen.  The  visit  went  off 
very  well.  We  arrived-  at  the  Quirinal  Palace 
at  two  o'clock,  and  were  received  by  the  Mar- 
chesa  Villamarina  and  two  other  court  ladies, 
with  whom  we  talked  for  perhaps  ten  minutes. 
A  tiny  old  woman  dressed  in  mourning,  looking 
like  the  Fairy  Blackstick,  came  out  from  her 
audience  just  as  we  entered  the  Queen's  recep- 
tion-room for  ours.  She  must  have  been  a 
privileged  person,  for  we  had  been  warned  not 
to  wear  black  and  not  to  wear  hats,  bonnets 
being  de  rigueur.  As  I  do  not  own  a  bonnet, 
Mrs.  Palmer  kindly  lent  me  a  charming  one, 
fresh  from  Paris  —  a  few  days  later,  when  she 
was  received  by  the  Pope,  she  wore  my  Span- 
ish mantilla.  The  Queen,  who  was  seated  on 
a  sofa,  rose  as  we  entered  and  shook  hands 
cordially  with  us.  She  is  still  beautiful,  her 
hair  magnificent,  her  eyes  kind  and  keen.  When 
you  visit  royalty  you  must  only  speak  when 
you  are  spoken  to ;  the  choice  of  the  topic 
of  conversation  thus  remains  with  the  royal 
personage.  You  must  always  say  "your  Maj- 
esty," and  you  must  make  three  reverences  on 

53 


ROMA  BEATA 

entering  and  leaving  the  presence.  In  all  this,  1 
was  tutored  by  Marion  Crawford,  who  has  often 
been  "  received,"  and  whose  books  the  Queen  is 
said  to  read  with  pleasure.  She  speaks  English 
perfectly,  by  the  way.  She  had  seen  an  article 
in  a  late  magazine  —  Thq  Century^  I  think  —  on 
American  country  houses  ;  she  spoke  of  those  at 
Newport,  and  said  that,  "judging  from  the  illus- 
trations, they  must  be  very  fine."  She  showed  us 
a  grand  piano  at  the  end  of  the  room,  saying  that 
it  was  an  American  instrurnent,  a  Steinway,  and 
that  "  it  had  a  very  brilliant  action."  With  Mrs. 
Palmer  the  Queen  spoke  of  the  World's  Fair. 
Mr.  MacVeagh  had  presented  her  with  a  copy  of 
the  book  I  edited  on  the  Woman's  Department 
of  the  Chicago  Exposition.  The  audience  lasted 
about  twenty  minutes  ;  then  the  Queen  rose,  the 
signal  for  us  to  withdraw.  We  made  our  three 
courtesies  and  backed  successfully  from  the  room. 
The  Queen  is  much  beloved  ;  she  has  real  charm, 
besides  being  good  and  clever. 

Yesterday  1  went  to  Mr.  WiUiam  Story's 
studio.  The  garden  is  lovelier  than  ever,  the 
climbing  vines  that  mask  the  dead  wall  make  a 
rustling  screen  of  cool  green  in  which  the  birds 
build  their  nests.     I  waited  in  the  studio  among 

54 


A  VISIT  TO   QUEEN   MARGARET 

the  statues  —  most  of  them  old  friends  of  mine  — 
and  found  my  particular  tassel  on  the  fringed  robe 
of  the  marble  Sardanapalus.  One  day,  seven- 
teen years  ago,  when  Mr.  Story  was  working  on  the 
clay,  he  let  me  take  his  modelling  tool  and  add  a 
few  touches  to  the  fringe.  I  have  seen  a  copy 
of  this  statue  in  Lord  Battersea's  fine  house  in 
London  opposite  the  Marble  Arch  of  Hyde 
Park.  When  Mr.  Story  came  in  —  much  as  you 
remember  him,  the  same  graceful,  brilliant  talker, 
only  with  a  new  pensive  note  since  his  wife's  death 
—  we  talked  of  the  old  days  at  Dieppe,  of  the 
meetings  in  the  studio  there,  when  he  and  my 
mother  read  aloud  from  the  books  they  were  writ- 
ing, and  Mrs.  Story  gave  us  tea  and  read  us  Mal- 
lock's  "  New  Republic,"  published  that  year  ;  it 
must  have  been  the  summer  of  1878.  Mr.  Story 
remembered  the  mornings  on  the  plage  when  we 
sat  on  the  warm  sea  sand  under  big  red  umbrel- 
las watching  "  the  boys "  tumbling  in  the  surf, 
and  mamma's  calling  Waldo  "  the  amber  god," 
and  Julian  "  a  young  leopard,"  as  he  swam  and 
dove  through  the  waves  like  a  merman.  I  re- 
minded him  of  the  little  poem  he  wrote  in  our 
autograph  book,  and  showed  him  the  locket  Mrs. 
Story  gave  me  with  a  picture  of  herself  and 

55 


ROMA  BEATA 

Pippa,  the  funny  little  pug  dog  she  took  with  her 
wherever  she  went.  We  both  remembered  how 
Pippa  behaved  the  day  they  left  Dieppe  when 
she  saw  the  handbag  in  which  she  always  trav- 
elled. She  bit  and  scratched  the  bag,  whined 
and  generally  remonstrated.  Once  inside  the 
satchel,  however,  she  was  perfectly  quiet  and 
never  betrayed  her  presence  by  barking  en  route. 

Mr.  Story  showed  me  the  monument  he  is 
modelling  for  Mrs.  Story's  grave  —  a  kneeling 
figure  of  an  angel  leaning  over  a  classic  altar. 
The  face,  every  line  of  the  figure,  every  finger  of 
the  hand,  each  feather  of  the  drooping  wings 
seems  to  weep.  He  calls  it  the  Genius  of  Grief. 
This  last  expression  of  a  great  life  love  gripped 
me  by  the  heart.  It  is  to  be  placed  in  the 
Protestant  cemetery  here  (where  lovely  Jennie 
Crawford  is  buried)  not  far  from  the  corner 
where  the  ashes  of  Shelley  were  interred,  and 
near  the  tombstone  of  Keats  with  its  familiar 
inscription,  — 

"  Here  lies  one  whose  name  is  writ  in  water." 

St.  AeiraxiiO  di  Sorrento,  March  18,  1895. 

Last  Monday  we  left  Rome  in  a  rain-storm 
and  came  here  to  break  up  a  pair  of  obstinate 
colds.     We   are  delightfully  established  at  the 


A  VISIT  TO   QUEEN   MARGARET 

CocumeUa,  an  old  Jesuit  monastery  turned  into 
a  hotel.  There  is  less  of  what  Hawthorne  calls 
the  odor  of  sanctity  —  a  peculiar  mildewed  smell 
the  monks  leave  behind  them  —  than  is  usual  in 
such  places.  Our  windows  command  an  aston- 
ishing view  of  the  Bay  of  Naples  and  Mt.  Vesu- 
vius. To  the  right,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away,  is  Villa  Crawford,  where  we  are  most 
kindly  welcomed  by  the  ladies  ;  the  man  of  the 
house  is  away.  The  children  are  charming ;  the 
villa  ideal ;  it  stands  on  the  edge  of  a  high  cliff 
leaning  over  the  sea.  The  gi'ounds,  filled  with 
flowers  and  fruit-trees,  are  seamed  with  quaintly 
paved  walks.  On  the  left  of  the  house  is  a  ter- 
race, where  they  dine  in  summer.  Here  a  flam- 
ing heart  in  gray  and  white  paving-stones  took 
my  fancy.  The  house  is  large  and  luxurious  ; 
there  are  roses  everywhere  inside  and  out. 

To-day  is  Palm  Sunday.  The  chambermaid 
who  brings  my  morning  coffee  brought  me  a  bit 
of  olive-branch,  instead  of  palm,  from  early  ser- 
vice. I^ater  we  went  to  high  mass  at  the  cathe- 
dral in  Sorrento.  The  procession  was  headed 
by  the  bishop,  his  acolytes,  and  some  smart 
young  canons  in  rose-colored  satin  capes.  After 
the  mass  the  procession  marched  through   the 

57 


ROMA  BEATA 

town,  led  by  a  group  of  bronzed  fishermen  and 
boys  dressed  in  white  robes,  with  bright  blue 
moi?'^  capes,  and  loose  oriental  white  hoods 
over  their  heads.  They  all  carried  yellow  palm 
branches  in  their  hands.  It  was  the  most  perfect 
contrast  of  color  imaginable. 

Yesterday  I  saw  the  nets  hauled  in.  The  men 
and  women,  old  and  young,  form  a  line  upon 
the  beach,  take  hold  upon  the  rope,  and  with  a 
graceful,  swinging  motion  pull  in  the  seine  inch 
by  inch,  as  they  did  in  the  days  of  St.  Peter. 
The  Sorrentines  are  a  handsome  and  seem  a 
kindly  people  ;  there  are  comparatively  few  beg- 
gars here. 

Throughout  the  Piano  di  Sorrento  thousands 
of  men  and  women  are  employed  in  the  manu- 
facture of  silk  stockings,  scarfs,  carved  and  in- 
laid wood,  coral  ornaments,  tortoise-shell  combs, 
and  jewelry.  I  dare  not  enter  a  shop  for  fear  of 
temptation.  The  Italian  spoken  is  far  pleasanter 
than  the  nasal  Neapolitan ;  the  chief  peculiarity 
is  the  dropping  of  the  final  vowel.  Maria,  the 
dark-eyed  chambermaid,  asks  if  she  shall  make 
the  lett,  for  letto  (bed),  and  speaks  of  Sorrent, 
doman,  and  Sabad,  meaning  Sorrento,  domani 
(to-morrow),  and  Sabato  (Saturday). 

58 


A  VISIT  TO   QUEEN  MARGARET 

The  trees  in  the  garden  are  laden  with  oranges 
and  lemons,  the  feast  of  the  roses  is  beginning, 
the  birds  are  singing.  The  service  of  the  hotel  is 
excellent,  the  table  quite  good  enough,  our  room 
has  a  fireplace  and  afternoon  sun ;  for  all  this, 
food  and  wine  included,  we  pay  six  francs  —  one 
dollar  and  twenty  cents  —  a  day,  with  permission 
to  roam  in  the  garden  and  pick  as  many  oranges 
and  roses  as  we  like.  I  am  reminded  of  Hugh 
Norman's  saying,  "When  I  have  only  a  dollar 
and  a  half  a  day  left  to  live  on,  I  shall  retire  to 
the  Cocumella  and  pass  the  rest  of  my  life  there." 
We  have  uva  secca  for  luncheon,  grapes  dipped 
in  wine  and  spices,  rolled  up  with  bits  of  citron 
in  grape-leaves,  tied  in  little  bundles,  and  roasted. 
They  may  be  kept  half  the  year,  and  are  among 
the  dainties  of  the  world.  The  miniature  Italian 
count  who  married  Mrs.  Tom  Thumb,  veuve,  said 
when  he  came  to  take  tea  at  our  house,  "//i 
Italia  si  mangia  bene  (In  Italy  one  eats  well)." 
He  was  right ;  we  hear  less  about  Italian  than 
about  French  cookery,  but  it  is  quite  as  good  — 
the  range  of  dishes  is  wider  and  shows  more 
imagination.  There  is  a  great  deal  about  cook- 
ing in  my  letters  ;  so  there  is  in  life.  Fire,  cook- 
ery,   and   civihzation    seem   to    be   inseparable. 

59 


ROMA   BEATA 

Speaking  of  fire,  the  women  about  here  say  that 
Vesuvius,  across  the  bay  there,  sets  a  bad  ex- 
ample smoking  his  eternal  pipe.  The  men  sit 
watching  him,  presently  they  imitate  him,  and 
try  and  see  how  big  a  cloud  of  smoke  they  can 
make. 

Vesuvius  dominates  the  whole  landscape.  He 
finally  got  the  better  of  us,  drew  us  like  a  magnet ; 
so,  finding  that  the  ascent  can  be  made  from  here 
as  well  as  anywhere,  we  gave  a  day  to  it.  The 
road,  an  ascending  spiral,  embraces  the  great 
black  mountain  like  the  coils  of  a  serpent.  At 
first  it  leads  through  pleasant  vineyards ;  when 
these  are  left  behind  the  dreadful  lava  fields  begin. 
The  weird  forms  of  the  petrified  rivers  of  lava, 
once  red  and  molten,  now  grim  and  black,  sug- 
gest human  bodies  writhing  in  the  clutch  of  horrid 
monsters.  Here  a  huge  trunk  madly  wrenches 
itself  from  the  toils,  there  a  vast  body  lies  supine 
and  agonized,  the  last  resistance  passed.  When 
we  left  our  carriage  at  the  foot  of  the  funicular 
railway,  I  felt  I  had  passed  through  several  circles 
of  the  Inferno.  Dante  must  have  received  many 
of  the  impressions  he  transmits  to  us  from 
Vesuvius.  At  the  summit,  when  I  looked  down 
into  the  crater,  at  the  slippery,  slimy  sides,  with 

60 


A   VISIT  TO   QUEEN  MARGARET 

their  velvet  bloom  of  sulphur,  I  saw  where  the 
fathers  of  the  Church  and  the  early  painters,  Fra 
Angelico  among  them,  got  their  ideas  of  hell. 
Marcus  Aurelius,  my  guide,  bibulous,  muscular, 
with  a  grip  of  iron,  found  a  point  from  which, 
when  the  wind  lifted  the  veil  of  thick  white 
smoke,  I  could,  by  leaning  well  over  the  crater, 
see  the  flood  at  the  bottom  surge,  seethe,  toss  up 
from  its  depth  big,  red-hot  stones,  which  dropped 
back  again  while  the  mountain  roared  and 
scolded.  It  was  an  awesome  day.  Vesuvius  has 
given  me  not  only  a  new  understanding  of  the 
poetry  and  rehgion  of  Italy,  but  of  the  volcanic 
Italian  character,  which  it  surely  has  had  a  share 
in  forming.  On  our  way  down  we  ran  over  a 
soldier,  the  front  wheel  of  our  carriage  passing 
across  his  leg.  As  we  were  three  people  in  the 
carriage,  it  must  have  hmt  him,  but  he  got  up 
and  walked  nimbly  off,  cursing  us  vehemently. 
1  wish  the  Abyssinians  might  find  the  Italian 
soldiers  equally  invincible  in  Africa, 

St.  Aonello  di  Sorrento,  Easter  Sunday,  1895. 

I  find  the  services  of  Holy  Week  more  im- 
pressive here  than  in  Rome.  Thursday  afternoon, 
on  a  lonely  road  by  the  sea,  we  heard  a  strange, 

61 


ROMA  BEATA 

primitive  chanting,  — the  music  might  have  been 
Palestrina's,  —  and  came  suddenly  upon  a  pro- 
cession led  by  children  carrying  the  usual  emblems 
of  the  Passion,  and  some  I  have  never  seen  before. 
The  story  of  the  betrayal  and  the  crucifixion  was 
told  by  symbols,  the  basin  of  Pilate,  the  cock  and 
sword  of  Peter,  the  bag  of  Judas,  the  scourge,  the 
pillar,  the  spear,  the  sponge,  the  cross,  the  ham- 
mer and  nails,  the  crown  of  thorns,  and  the 
winding-sheet.  The  washing  of  the  apostles' 
feet  at  the  cathedral  Holy  Thursday  was  really 
moving.  A  dozen  poor  old  fishermen,  scrubbed 
as  clean  as  possible,  represented  the  twelve ;  they 
were  each  rewarded  by  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  franc 
at  the  end  of  the  service.  Early  Good  Friday 
morning,  before  the  sun  was  up,  a  band  of  peasants 
passed  through  the  town  bearing  a  life-sized  image 
of  the  Madonna  dressed  all  in  white,  going  out 
to  look  for  her  son.  After  sundown  they  re- 
turned, bringing  back  the  mother  from  her  search, 
clad  in  mourning  robes.  She  had  found  her  son ; 
behind  her  the  figure  of  the  dead  Christ  was 
carried  on  a  bier.  The  people  stood  gravely 
watching  the  bearers  as  they  passed  through  the 
dark,  torch-lit  streets.  On  Saturday,  as  we  were 
driving,  a  cannon  sounded  at  twelve  o'clock  in 

62 


A  VISIT   TO   QUEEN   MARGARET 

token  of  the  resurrection.  Our  driver  threw  him- 
self from  the  cab  and,  touching  his  head  to  the 
ground  three  times,  remained  kneeUng  long 
enough  to  repeat  several  aves. 

Palazzo  Rusncucci,  Rome,  March  27,  1895. 

We  were  glad  to  get  back  to  Rome,  and  to 
the  terrace,  where  the  wall-flowers  are  out,  and 
daffodils,  pansies,  primroses,  forget-me-nots,  and 
lilies-of- the- valley.  Two  large  lilac-bushes  and 
three  spiraea  will  be  in  bloom  by  Sunday.  There 
is  snow  on  the  Leonessa ;  it  is  a  trifle  chilly  up 
here  on  the  terrace  where  I  write,  but  it  is  near 
"  peaks  and  stars  "  and  very  near  peace.  I  weed 
the  flowers,  and  collect  the  snails  that  prey  upon 
our  pansies  and  threaten  our  roses.  The  awful 
gardens  where  Nero's  living  torches  flamed  lay 
just  below  my  windows,  where  the  Piazza  of  St. 
Peter's  is  now.  Soracte,  the  Leonessa,  with  all 
the  rest  of  the  purple  Alban  hills,  looked  down  on 
that  sight  as  calmly  as  they  look  on  my  lilies  and 
me.  There  is  no  place  in  the  world  where  one 
feels  so  small  as  in  Rome.  The  sunflowers  come 
up,  each  with  his  little  burst  shell  of  seed  on  his 
head,  which  he  soon  throws  away ;  so  the  lesson 
of  the  new  life  springing  from  the  old  is  studied 
in  the  shadow  of  Angelo's   dome.     The  great 

6s 


ROMA   BEATA 

church  greeted  me  like  a  friend.  Tourists  criticise 
the  architecture :  I  do  not  deny  faults,  I  only  do 
not  see  them. 

We  have  a  nightingale  of  our  own  at  last. 
His  name  is  Pan.  He  sings  gloriously.  What 
a  thrill  his  voice  has !  We  feed  him  on  bul- 
lock's heart.  Jeremy  Bentham,  the  tortoise, 
knew  me ;  he  never  was  so  friendly  before ;  he 
now  snaps  fresh  lettuce-leaves  out  of  my  hand 
without  trying  to  nip  my  fingers.  Our  great 
Thomas  cat  threatened  Pan,  and  my  life  was  a  con- 
stant struggle  to  keep  them  apart,  so  I  have  sent 
Pan  to  the  studio,  where  J.  has  a  falcon  and  two 
pigeons.  He  threatens  to  buy  a  jackdaw,  and 
was  with  difficulty  restrained  from  purchasing  a 
baby  fox.  It  was  such  an  engaging  little  animal 
that  I  confess  to  have  wanted  it  myself  The 
happy  family  at  the  studio  is  cared  for  by  Vin- 
cenzo,  a  young  painter,  a  scholar  of  J.'s.  In  the 
old  days,  when  J.  was  a  pupil  of  Villegas,  Vincenzo 
was  the  studio  boy  who  washed  their  brushes. 
J.  thinks  he  has  some  talent  and  has  given  him 
a  whole  floor  in  his  great  barrack  of  a  studio. 

Pompilia  and  Filomena  had  swept  and  gar- 
nished the  house  with  flowers  in  honor  of  our 
return.     All  our  friends  and  our  small  world  of 

64 


A  VISIT  TO   QUEEN   MARGARET 

hangers-on  (the  ancient  Romans  called  them 
chents)  welcomed  us  kindly,  with  the  single 
exception  of  the  porter. 

Porters  seem  to  Be  natural  enemies,  like 
mothers-in-law.  We  all  know  shining  excep- 
tions, but  the  rule  commonly  holds  good  of  both. 
None  of  our  friends  are  on  speaking  terms  with 
their  porters.  Our  old  porter  was  dreadful  — 
dirty,  drunk,  disreputable.  At  first  the  new  one 
seemed  a  treasure.  J.  had  recommended  him 
for  the  place  chiefly  on  account  of  his  lovely 
tenor  voice.  The  man — we  call  him  Ercole 
"  because  it  is  his  name  "  —  used  to  sit  at  work 
(he  is  a  mender  of  leather)  on  the  sidewalk 
opposite  the  studio  singing  airs  from  the  latest 
operas,  Boheme,  Pagliacci,  Iris,  but  singing 
them  like  an  artist.  It  helped  J.,  shut  up  at 
his  work  in  the  big  studio,  to  hear  him,  and  in  a 
reckless  moment  he  spoke  to  Signor  INIazzocchi 
about  the  singing  saddler.  Behold  him  installed 
witli  his  big,  white-haired  wife,  Maria,  his  little 
daughter,  Lucrezia,  brown  and  bonnie,  in  a 
grim  room  without  light  or  air  (you  would  not 
put  a  cat  in  such  a  hole) —  still,  an  improvement 
on  their  former  quarters.  The  landlord  is  re- 
sponsible for  the  porter's  wages.  We  give  him 
A  65 


ROMA  BEATA 

a  mancia  of  ten  francs  a  month,  extras  for  extra 
service,  and  a  present  at  Christmas  and  at 
Easter.  His  duty  towards  us  is  to  receive  our 
cards  and  letters  and  bring  them  up  the  three 
long  flights  of  stairs.  Our  mail  grevsr  staler  and 
staler.  The  Paris  New  York  Herald  (read  by 
all  Americans  in  Europe),  instead  of  being 
served  with  breakfast,  arrived  barely  in  time  for 
luncheon.  J.  had  built  on  the  first  landing  a 
little  open  stall,  light  and  airy,  where  Ercole 
could  stitch  his  old  saddles  and  harnesses  and 
sing  his  jolly  songs.  Alas  and  alas  I  there  is  a 
wine-shop  opposite  the  palace,  there  is  a  trattoria 
on  the  ground  floor  next  the  baker's ;  both  pro- 
prietors are  generous  and  soft-hearted.  Some- 
how the  fat  wife,  the  slim  daughter,  are  fed,  but 
Ercole  stitches  no  longer,  sings  no  more.  Sober 
and  poor,  a  rival  to  Pan.  Rich  and  drunk,  he  is 
sourly  silent.  It  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  play  at 
being  providence  !  The  postino  now  brings  up 
the  mail  and  delivers  it  at  our  door,  ultimo  piano 
(top  floor). 

February,  1896. 

Last  week  I  took  Isabel  to  a  ball  at  the 
Princess  del  Drago's.  We  have  kept  Ercole  up 
at  night  a  good  deal  lately,  so  I  took  the  key  of 


A  VISIT   TO   QUEEN  MARGARET 

the  big  portone  and  told  him  that  he  need  not 
wait  for  us.  Isabel's  maid,  Franceline,  was  to  sit 
up  and  open  the  old  green  door  of  our  apartment 
the  key  of  which  weighs  two  pounds  and  will  not 
go  into  my  pocket.  We  wore  our  very  best 
gowns  and  trinkets,  and  Isabel  had  a  pretty  tinsel 
ribbon  in  her  hair  which  sparkled  like  diamonds. 
It  was  a  great  dance  ;  the  drive  home  at  three  in 
the  morning  under  a  full  silver  moon,  past  Hilda's 
tower,  the  fountain  of  the  Triton,  and  the 
hospital  of  Santo  Spirito  was  as  far  as  I  was 
concerned  not  the  least  of  the  fun.  We  met  a 
few  empty  cabs  returning  to  their  stables,  and 
just  as  we  entered  the  Borgo  Nuovo  we  passed  a 
pair  of  grave  carabinieri  (military  police)  pacing 
their  beat,  wrapped  in  long  black  cloaks,  their 
three-cornered  hats  drawn  over  their  eyes.  Our 
good  coachman  Cesare  opened  the  portone,  found 
and  lighted  the  candle  left  on  the  lower  step,  as 
had  been  arranged,  and  bade  us  good-night. 
We  picked  up  our  skirts  and  went  up  the  two 
easy  flights  chattering  about  the  party.  At  the 
second  landing  we  stopped  beside  the  Etruscan 
ladies  to  rest  before  breasting  the  third  short, 
steep  flight.  I  rang  softly,  not  to  disturb  the 
sleepers,  and  waited.     I  rang  loudly,  and  waited. 

67 


ROMA  BEATA 

Through  the  door  came  a  gentle,  famihar  mur- 
mur. Then  the  cracked  bell  rang  out  a  tocsin 
that  should  have  roused  the  whole  palace ;  still 
no  sound  from  within  save  that  rhythmical  mur- 
mur ;  we  beat  and  kicked  upon  the  door  till 
hands  and  feet  were  tired  ;  we  called,  bellowed, 
screamed,  shrieked  for  a  matter  of  five  minutes, 
until  the  terrified  Franceline,  guilty  yet  denying 
sleep,  threw  open  the  door.  I  was  just  dropping 
off  into  dreamland  when  I  heard  the  portone  shut 
heavily.  As  the  stairway  belongs  exclusively  to 
us,  1  sat  up  and  listened.  There  was  a  hubbub 
on  the  stairs.  I  heard  Ercole's  voice  protesting, 
calling  upon  the  Trinity  first  as  a  whole,  then 
severally,  upon  all  the  saints,  last  and  loudest 
upon  the  Madonna,  to  witness  his  innocence.  A 
stern,  accusing  voice  drowned  Ercole's.  I  threw 
on  a  wrapper,  ran  to  the  door,  and  listened. 

"  Where  are  they,  then  ?  Make  me  to  see 
them,  those  ladies,  all  festive  with  jewels. 
Did  we  not  ourselves  behold  them  enter  this 
portone^  laughing  and  talking  gaily?  this  portone, 
brute  beast,  of  which  one  knows  that  thou,  and 
thou  only,  hast  the  key.  Did  we  not  hear,  we 
out  in  the  street,  feminine  yells  horrible,  to  make 
one  tremble,  and  thou  sayest  thou  heardst  noth- 

68 


A  VISIT   TO   QUEEN   MARGARET 

ing  ?  Animal,  where  are  they,  then  ?  What 
have  you  done  with  them,  those  ladies  so  bright, 
so  beautiful  ?  Robbed,  murdered,  dying,  per- 
haps —  possibly  dead."    . 

"  By  the  mass,  by  Peter  and  Paul,  I  was  asleep 
in  my  bed  at  ten  o'clock.  Ask  Maria,  ask  Lu- 
crezia,  ask  the  padrone  of  the  wine-shop,  who 
turned  me  out  at  that  hour.  I  knew  nothing  till 
you  came,  illustrissimi,  you  tore  me  from  my  bed. 
Wliat  do  1  know  of  the  ladies  ?  I  saw  them  go 
at  quarter  before  eleven  with  Cesare  in  a  coupd. 
Is  it  sensible  to  ask  me  ?  Ask  that  fat  pig,  Cesare. 
If  they  are  dead,  he  is  responsible." 

"  Might  it  not  be  well  to  ring  the  bell  and 
ask  the  signore  ? "  said  a  third  voice,  that  of 
the  elder  carabiniere.  Explanations,  apologies, 
thanks,  "  e  buona  notte  !  " 

February  4,  1897. 

The  ball  at  the  embassy  last  night  (given  by 
Mr.  MacVeagh,  the  retiring  American  Ambassa- 
dor, for  the  King  and  Queen)  went  off  very  well. 
Her  Majesty  looked  charming  and  danced  the 
quadrille  with  great  spirit.  Some  of  the  dancers 
forgot  the  figures,  she  put  them  all  straight,  and 
was  so  winning,  so  fascinating  that  the  Americans 
were  enthusiastic  about  her. 

69 


ROMA  BEATA 

The  King,  who  does  not  dance,  seemed  bored. 
He  is  first  and  above  all  else  a  soldier,  a  man  of 
action.  I  watched  him  as  he  stood  pulling  his 
big  mustachios,  talking  to  an  ancient  ambassa- 
dress ;  by  his  expression  it  was  easy  to  see  he 
would  be  glad  when  it  was  over  and  time  to  go 
home.  He  was  in  uniform  as  usual,  carrying  his 
white-plumed  helmet  under  his  arm.  His  honest 
face  had  that  puzzled  look  it  so  often  wears  ;  no 
wonder  I  Of  all  the  monarchs  in  the  world,  his 
riddles  are  the  hardest  to  read.  The  Queen  wore 
a  superb  dress  of  pale  blue  satin  with  point  lace 
and  her  famous  pearls.  The  King  gave  her  a 
string  of  pearls  on  each  anniversary  of  their  mar- 
riage, it  is  said,  till  at  their  silver  wedding  she 
protested  she  could  not  bear  the  weight  of  an- 
other rope.  The  finest  jewels  after  the  royal 
pearls  were  Mrs.  Potter  Palmer's.  She  wore  the 
crown  of  pearls  and  diamonds  I  remember  her 
wearing  at  her  reception  for  the  Spanish  Infanta 
Eulalia  at  the  time  of  the  World's  Fair  at  Chicago. 
The  supper  was  served  in  an  immense  room,  the 
handsomest  in  the  apartment,  which  occupies  the 
piano  nobile  of  the  Palazzo  Ludovisi.  Nothing 
could  be  better  arranged  for  entertaining  in  the 
grand  manner  than  the  present  American  Em- 

70 


A  VISIT  TO   QUEEN  MARGARET 

bassy.  You  enter  an  enormous  anticamera, 
where  the  servants  take  your  wraps,  pass  on 
through  a  second  waiting-room  into  a  long  cor- 
ridor which  runs  the  whole  length  of  the  palace. 
The  state  rooms  all  lead  from  this  corridor ;  they 
have  communicating  doors,  so  that  standing  in 
the  doorway  of  the  supper-room  one  looks  through 
the  two  drawing-rooms  to  the  ballroom,  where 
on  a  stage  the  musicians  are  seated.  The  diplo- 
mats all  wore  court  dress.  A  ball  where  the 
men  as  well  as  the  women  are  splendid  is  natur- 
ally far  more  brilliant  than  one  of  our  balls,  where 
the  girls  monopolize  the  finery.  The  most  strik- 
ing figure  there  was  the  military  attache  of  the 
Russian  embassy.  He  wore  the  dress  of  a  Cos- 
sack colonel,  cartridge  belt,  jewelled  weapons, 
and  all,  and  —  as  if  to  heighten  the  warlike  look 
—  a  black  patch  over  one  eye.  The  tender- 
hearted regarded  him  with  sympathy :  "  poor 
man,  in  what  dreadful  encounter  with  savage 
tribesmen  had  he  lost  the  missing  eye  ?  "  Worse 
luck  yet  1  It  was  knocked  out  by  the  point  of  an 
umbrella  carelessly  handled  by  a  lady  in  getting 
out  of  the  travelling  compartment  of  a  train  I 

I  never  saw  such  a  crowd  around  a  supper- 
table.     Refreshments    at   most    entertainments 

71 


ROMA   BEATA 

here  are  simpler  than  would  be  believed  at  home. 
In  this  the  Italians  are  more  civilized  than  the 
English  or  ourselves.  The  supper  last  night  was 
of  the  generous  American  order.  The  Romans 
seemed  to  enjoy  it  and  did  not  limit  themselves 
to  biscuits  and  lemonade.  The  army  officers  in 
especial  took  kindly  to  the  good  things. 

To-day  I  looked  into  St.  Agostino  and  saw 
the  beautiful  miracle-working  Madonna.  She  is 
a  lovely  marble  woman  with  a  less  lovely  bambino. 
The  mother  is  literally  covered  with  gems ;  she 
has  strings  upon  strings  of  pearls  about  her  neck, 
her  fingers  are  laden  to  the  very  tips  with  rings  ; 
the  child  is  hung  with  scores  of  watches.  Both 
heads  are  deformed  mth  ugly  crowns.  The 
Madonna  is  by  Jacopo  Sansovino,  a  Florentine 
sculptor  of  the  fifteenth  century.  She  is  much 
adored  and  quite  adorable.  She  is  very  rich,  has 
a  good  income  of  her  own  from  the  various  lega- 
cies she  has  received.  On  the  pedestal  below  her 
silver  foot  —  the  marble  one  was  long  since  kissed 
out  of  existence  —  an  inscription  states  that  "  on 
the  assurance  of  Pius  the  Seventh  an  indulgence 
of  two  hundred  days  will  be  granted  to  whoever 
shall  devoutly  touch  the  foot  of  this  holy  image 
and  recite  an  ave.'^ 

72 


The  Madonna  of  St.  Agostino 

Krom  a  photograph 


A  VISIT  TO  QUEEN  MARGARET 

I  also  went  to  see  the  appmtamento  Borgia^ 
newly  opened  at  the  Vatican.  It  contains  one  of 
the  most  splendid  pieces  of  decoration  I  have  ever 
seen  —  three  rooms  painted  by  Pinturicchio  ; 
they  have  been  closed  for  twenty  years,  having 
been  used  as  libraries  ;  the  walls  were  covered 
with  books.  The  Pope  has  gone  to  great  ex- 
pense to  put  them  in  order,  and  has  thrown  them 
open  to  the  public.  Artistic  Rome  has  gone  mad 
about  them.  They  surpass  everything  in  the 
way  of  decoration  here  save  the  Sistine  Chapel 
and  the  Stanze  of  Raphael. 

June  29  and  30,  1897. 

To-night  the  Feast  of  St.  Peter  is  to  be  cele- 
brated by  a  dinner-party  on  the  terrace.  That 
old  statue  of  Jupiter  in  the  great  church  across 
the  way,  —  now  held  venerable  as  a  portrait  of 
St.  Peter  —  is  dressed  in  his  best  vestments, 
his  finest  tiara,  and  wears  his  most  sumptuous 
sapphire  ring  on  his  stiff  forefinger.  As  the 
whole  Borgo  is  under  the  protection  of  St.  Peter, 
I  always  make  a  little  feast  on  his  day.  There 
are  many  sermons  preached  about  him ;  I  heard 
an  excellent  one  in  a  neighboring  church.  The 
object  of  the  saints'  days   is  to  keep   alive  the 

memory  of  noble  lives.     Just  as  on  Washington's 

73 


ROMA  BEATA 

Birthday  the  old  stories  of  Valley  Forge  and 
Yorktown  are  recited  year  after  year,  so  the  story 
of  Peter  is  told  on  the  29th  of  June  every  year. 
I  was  surprised  to  hear  Signor  Rodolfo  Lanciani 
say  he  thought  it  possible  St.  Peter  had  actually 
been  in  Rome,  and  that  in  his  opinion  the  great 
church  may  cover  his  last  resting-place  as  well 
as  perpetuate  his  name. 

Ripe  figs  are  supposed  to  be  eaten  first  on  St. 
John's  Day,  the  24th  of  June.  Tradition  says 
that  the  first  plate  of  figs  was  always  presented 
on  that  day  to  Pope  Pius  the  Ninth.  Either 
figs  are  late  this  season  or  Pompilia  has  been 
slow  about  finjding  them,  for  the  purple  figs 
which  were  served  with  cold  boiled  ham  for  our 
luncheon  to-day  are  the  first  we  have  seen  this 
season.  Naturally  there  was  no  second  course 
to  such  a  superlative  first.  The  terrace  dinner 
was  a  great  success.  The  table  was  set  under 
the  pergola  covered  thick  with  the  second  crop 
of  roses.  We  hung  lucerne  (brass  lamps  for 
burning  ohve  oil)  from  the  yellow  canes  of  the 
crossed  bamboos  and  lighted  the  farther  end  of 
our  airy  dining-room  with  colored  lanterns. 
Among  the  guests  were  Monsignor  William 
O'Connell,  director  of  the  American  College,  a 

74 


A  VISIT  TO   QUEEN  MARGARET 

genial  Irish- American  priest,  and  Dr.  William 
Bull,  physician  to  the  American  Embassy,  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend  o^  all  wandering  Ameri- 
cans. He  is  beloved  of  artists,  a  collector  of 
antiquities,  a  genial,  not  a  melancholy  Dane,  a 
wise  physician,  and  one  of  the  most  picturesque 
figures  in  our  Roman  world.  The  sun  was  still 
staining  the  sky  when  we  sat  do^vn.  By  the 
time  old  Nena  brought  the  ices  from  the  trattoria 
below,  the  full  yellow  moon  came  up  over  the 
Sabine  Hills,  flooding  every  corner  with  its  yellow 
light.  Below,  in  the  baker's  shop,  the  nightin- 
gale sang  to  the  roses.  Our  best  rose,  il  Capitano 
Christi,  is  a  very  large,  flat,  pink  rose,  growing 
on  a  stiff*  stalk  with  long,  fierce  thorns.  It  opens 
wide  as  a  saucer,  and  is  of  the  most  rapturous, 
tender  color.  It  is  grafted  on  an  excellent 
commonplace  red  rose-tree,  a  generous  and  pro- 
Hfic  bloomer,  which  yields  a  brave  harvest,  the 
first  to  blossom,  the  last  to  wither,  always  to  be 
depended  on  if  I  want  roses  in  a  hurry.  The 
Captain  gives  a  rare  rose,  never  more  than  one 
at  a  time,  but  I  know  that  it  is  to  the  Captain's 
rose  that  the  baker's  nightingale  sings. 


75 


IV 

A  PRESENTATION  TO  LEO  THE  THIRTEENTH 

Palazzo  Rusticucci,  November  20,  1897. 

Our  mother,  comfortably  established  in  the 
guest-room  under  the  protection  of  Apollo, 
already  feels  at  home  in  Rome.  In  the  morning 
she  sits  on  the  terrace  in  a  gi'and  hooded  chair 
we  had  made  for  her  in  that  haunt  of  basket- 
makers,  the  Vicolo  dei  Canestrari  —  the  little 
street  of  the  basket-makers  —  are  not  the  names 
•of  the  Roman  streets  delightful?  After  luncheon 
we  drive  on  the  Pincio  when  the  band  plays, 
in  the  Doria  or  the  Borghese  Villa,  or,  best  of 
all,  on  the  Campagna.  She  shall  have  enough 
out-of-doors  this  winter !  For  a  hundred  years 
English  doctors  have  sent  elderly  people  to 
Rome,  "  where  the  effect  of  the  air  on  the  heart's 
action  tends  to  increase  longevity."  The  old 
here  are  uncommonly  frisky.  Mr.  Greenough, 
an  octogenarian,  trots  up  our  stairs  as  if  he  were 
twenty.     On  stormy  days  the  mother  drives  to 

76 


The  Pincian  Gate  and  Wall  of  Rome 

From  a  photograph 


A  PRESENTATION   TO   LEO   XIII 

St.  Peter's  and  takes  her  walk  inside  the  church. 
It  is  so  vast  that  it  has  a  chmate  of  its  own,  vary- 
ing only  ten  degrees  in  temperature  during  the 
entire  year,  consequently  it  is  warm  in  winter 
and  cool  in  summer.  In  August  I  put  on  a  wrap 
when  I  go  over  there ;  in  January  I  take  off  my 
furs  !  Socially  as  well  as  climatically  Rome  is  an 
ideal  place  for  the  old  ;  that  horrid  topic,  age^  is 
properly  ignored.  I  have  seen  a  gentleman  of 
seventy-nine  waltzing  at  a  ball  with  a  partner  not 
twenty  years  his  j  unior.  The  example  of  the  Pope 
—  always  an  old  man  —  may  have  something  to 
do  with  this  admirable  energy  of  the  elders  ;  the 
age  of  the  civilization  probably  counts  for  more. 
Do  not  believe  what  the  papers  say  about 
the  Pope ;  he  is  likely  to  live  for  years.  Eighty- 
seven  is  the  prime  of  life  for  pontiffs.  Leo  the 
Thirteenth  serves  the  Italian  newspaper  men 
and  foreign  correspondents  as  the  sea-serpent 
serves  ours.  When  news  is  scarce,  when  the 
rich  and  great  are  veiled  from  the  public  eye 
by  reason  of  summer  seclusion  or  wandering, 
that  blessed  serpent,  sailing  into  the  sea  of  ink, 
saves  the  situation.  The  reports  oiSua  Santitas 
failing  health  used  to  rouse  my  sympathy ;  now 
they  only  make  me  angry,  because  they  hurt  his 

77 


ROMA  BEATA 

poor  old  feelings.  He  once  said,  on  reading  an 
account  of  his  approaching  end  in  a  Roman 
paper,  "Why  do  they  wish  me  dead?" 

Was  not  that  pathetic?  In  spite  of  being 
White  in  my  politics,  I  feel  a  personal  sympathy 
for  the  Pope.  We  are  such  near  neighbors,  1 
see  the  windows  of  his  private  apartment  from 
the  terrace ;  we  both  look  down  upon  the  piazza 
of  St.  Peter's ;  we  have  the  same  surgeon  (Dr. 
Bull  took  me  to  consult  Mazzoni  about  a  bicycle 
ankle) ;  I  know  several  of  his  chamberlains  ;  we 
both  are  left  behind  when  the  hot  weather  drives 
the  beau  vionde  out  of  Rome  for  the  summer: 
you  see,  we  have  much  in  common;  his  not 
knowing  it  does  not  alter  my  feelings  ;  it 's  one- 
sided, like  a  book  friendship.  I  was  in  Rome 
when  Pius  the  Ninth  died  and  Leo  the  Thirteenth 
was  elected.  I  remember  how  handsome  Pius 
looked  lying  in  state,  with  his  foot  in  such  a 
position  that  his  red  slipper  (it  had  a  cross 
embroidered  on  it)  could  be  kissed.  I  do  not 
remember  much  about  the  coronation  ceremonies, 
but  I  have  a  very  clear  impression  of  my  pres- 
entation to  Pope  Leo  in  the  winter  of  1878, 
very  soon  after  he  became  Pope.  The  mother 
refused  to  go :  those  stubborn  Protestant  knees 

78 


A  PRESENTATION   TO   LEO   XIII 

would  not  bow  down  to  Baal  or  to  the  Pope. 
Our  generation  takes  things  differently,  not  half 
so  picturesquely.  We  say,- "  An  old  man's  bless- 
ing is  a  good  thing  to  have,  whether  he  be  a 
lama  from  Thibet  or  a  priest  of  Rome."  Two 
other  young  American  girls  went  with  me  ;  there 
were,  all  told,  perhaps  twenty  people  presented 
that  day.  We  wore  black,  with  such  diamonds 
as  our  mothers  would  lend  us,  and  Spanish 
mantillas.  A  few  minutes  before  the  Pope 
entered  a  chamberlain  made  us  all  kneel;  then 
Leo,  dressed  in  white,  with  a  heavy  gold  chain 
around  his  neck,  from  which  hung  a  cross  set  with 
emeralds,  made  the  tour  of  the  room,  stopping 
to  speak  to  every  one.  The  chamberlain  men- 
tioned our  names  and  nationality,  the  Pope  asked 
each  of  us  to  what  church  we  belonged.  My 
place  was  next  an  emotional  convert ;  he  hardly 
noticed  her,  merely  giving  her  his  blessing  and 
passing  on.  He  asked  me  where  I  came  from, 
said  Boston  was  a  famous  city,  inquired  how 
long  I  had  been  in  Rome,  wished  me  a  pleasant 
journey,  and  a  safe  return  to  my  people.  He 
spoke  longest  to  a  little  Jewess  who  was  at  my 
left —  on  the  principle,  I  suppose,  that  we  already 
have  our  friends,  and  should  make  friends  of  our 

79 


ROMA  BEATA 

enemies.  We  kissed  his  ring  —  a  large  amethyst 
—  as  we  had  been  told,  not  his  hand.  I  am  not 
sui'e  whether  it  was  Pope  Leo  or  Pius  the  Ninth 
who  always  asked  strangers  how  long  they  had 
been  in  Rome.  When  the  answer  indicated  that 
the  stay  had  been  for  days  or  weeks,  he  said  in 
parting  "  Addio^'  when  it  had  been  months,  "  A 
riverderdj'  —  au  revoir,  —  *'  because  if  you  have 
been  here  only  a  short  time,  you  may  not  return, 
but  if  you  have  been  here  for  months,  you  are 
sure  to  come  back."  I  have  heard  it  told  of 
both ;  it  very  likely  dates  back  to  Gregory  the 
Sixteenth.  Stories  are  immortal  in  Rome, 
those  from  the  "  Gesta  Romanorum  "  being  still 
current. 

December  27,  1897. 

Oh !  the  terrace,  the  terrace !  with  the  white 
hyacinths  ablow,  little  starry  bunches  of  narcissi, 
pansies,  a  rare  rose,  and  the  yellow  gourds  of  the 
passion-flower  hanging  down  through  the  crossed 
bamboos  of  the  trellis.  Our  mother  feels  the 
fascination  of  the  terrace  life  more  and  more. 
Yesterday  she  asked  me  to  buy  her  a  small 
watering-can,  —  ours  are  huge,  —  and  to-day  she 
helped  water  the  plants  and  weed  the  tulips.  I 
put  the  pots  up  on  the  wall  for  her  where  she 

80 


A  PRESENTATION   TO  LEO   XIII 

could  easily  reach  them,  and  she  pulled  out  the 
tender  weeds  with  her  beautiful  hands.  Bulbs 
do  not  thrive  so  well  the  second  year  as  the  first. 
The  delirium  of  the  hyacinths  is  gone  with  that 
precious  burst  of  youth.  This  season  they  bloom 
soberly ;  no  more  passionate,  lavish  giving,  they 
have  left  that  behind,  —  like  some  other  flowers, 
—  but  they  do  their  little,  middle-aged  best. 
We  had  a  merry  Christmas.  The  weather  was 
perfect :  a  gift,  the  fii'st  and  best  of  all,  of  a  clear, 
bracing  morning.  "  Give  me  health  and  a  day, 
and  I  will  make  the  pomp  of  emperors  ridicu- 
lous." No  emperor  being  at  hand,  we  went  to 
St.  Peter's,  walked  up  and  down  the  side  aisles, 
had  just  a  whiff  of  the  high  mass.  Cardinal  Ram- 
polla  officiating,  the  Pope's  angel  singing  the 
soprano  part  phenomenally.  His  voice  has  a 
peculiar  soaring  quality ;  it  seems  to  scale  the 
heights  and  knock  at  the  door  of  heaven. 

We  met  Boston  society,  as  we  always  do  when 
we  go  to  St.  Peter's,  —  an  old  friend  and  his  bride, 
and  a  pair  of  pleasant  Beacon  Street  neighbors. 

February  11,  1898. 

J.  says  "  Rome  is  always  festering  (Jesta-ing).'' 
Between  saints'  days,  national  holidays,  and  our 

6  81 


ROMA  BEATA 

own  private  celebrations  there  are  rather  too  many 
festivities.  It  is  a  pretty  custom  they  have  here 
of  celebrating  the  feast  of  the  patron  saint  rather 
than  the  birthday.  The  embarrassing  question, 
"  How  old  ? "  is  thus  avoided.  It  is  also  con- 
venient. On  the  feast  of  Santa  Lucia  I  am  re- 
minded to  go  and  see  Lucia  di  Villegas  and  carry 
her  a  bunch  of  flowers.  I  am  sure  to  find  Villino 
Villegas  swept  and  garnished,  the  signora  dressed 
in  her  best,  all  smiles  and  sweetness.  She  has 
been  to  mass  and  is  ready  to  receive  friends  and 
relatives.  Anglo-Saxons  are  fond  of  saying  that 
the  home  does  not  exist  in  Latin  lands.  This  is 
not  quite  true.  In  Italy  the  home  is  less  a  social 
centre  and  more  a  family  stronghold  than  with 
us.  An  outsider  is  admitted  to  it  only  as  the 
last  test  of  friendship.  It  has  still  a  touch  of 
oriental  feeling.  It  is  the  place  where  the  women 
belong,  where  they  mostly  stay  ;  it  is  jealously 
guarded  from  strangers  —  from  strange  men 
especially  ;  "  chi  va  piano  va  sano  I " 

Wednesday,  the  anniversary  of  our  wedding- 
day,  was  one  long  frolic.  At  nine  we  went  up 
to  our  play-house  and  played  with  our  flower 
dolls.  In  the  evening  we  had  a  little  dinner 
of  intimates.     Filomena  arranged  a  large  horse- 

82 


A  PRESENTATION   TO   LEO   XIII 

shoe  in  double  violets  and  pansies  between  J.'s 
place  and  mine  at  table  "  for  good  luck."  In  the 
morning  she  brought  me  a. basket  of  fresh  eggs 
from  her  people  in  the  country  and  wished  me 
"  cento  di  questi  giorni  (a  hundred  of  these 
days)."  Even  Pompilia,  the  cook,  who  has  been 
rather  cross  lately,  gave  us  two  paper  fans.  In 
the  kitchen  a  fiascone  of  wine  and  a  huge  pane- 
ttone  were  on  tap  ;  everybody  who  passed  that 
way  drank  our  health.  After  dinner  we  sat  over 
the  fire  till  past  midnight  telling  ghost  stories  or 
listening  to  J.  C.  (the  Muse  of  Via  Gregoriana), 
who  played  divinely  to  us.  It  was  a  good  day. 
We  do  not  have  much  music  worth  hearing  in 
Rome,  so  we  doubly  enjoy  what  the  gods  send 
us.  Sgambati's  concert  last  week  began  with 
that  adorable  overture  to  Fingal's  Cave.  Cotogni, 
an  old  singer  (sixty-eight  is  old  to  sing  in  con- 
certs), sang  well  with  the  remains  of  a  glorious 
bass  voice  which  he  handled  like  a  delicate  so- 
prano. He  is  just  back  from  St.  Petersburg, 
where  he  has  been  the  director  of  the  Conser- 
vatory for  twenty  years.  I  heard  him  again  at 
Mme.  Patti's  concert.  They  sang  "  la  ci  darcm 
la  mano,''  from  "  Don  Giovanni,"  which  they  had 
last  sung  together  in  their  early  youth.     The 

83 


ROMA  BEATA 

gallant  manner  in  which  the  old  singer  handed 
out  the  diva  was  very  nice.  Mme.  Patti  is  here 
on  a  wedding-tour  with  her  husband,  —  Baron 
Cedarstrom,  —  a  young  Swede  twenty-eight 
years  old,  who  used  to  take  care  of  her  throat. 
She  wore  a  pretty  lilac  dress  which  smelt  of 
Paris  and  the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 

Signor  Sgambati  is  responsible  for  the  best 
music  we  have.  He  is  a  true  musician,  a  de- 
lightful composer,  and  the  most  enchanting  per- 
son. Of  course  you  know  his  compositions  ;  the 
Boston  Orchestra  lately  gave  his  symphony. 
Some  time  ago  he  was  on  the  point  of  leaving 
Rome  for  London,  where  they  were  on  their 
knees  for  him  to  come :  the  musical  people  and 
critics  were  waiting  with  open  arms  to  receive 
him.  He  went  to  the  station,  weighed  his 
luggage,  bought  his  ticket,  was  just  about  to  get 
on  the  train,  when  he  realized  that  he  was  leav- 
ing Rome !  That  was  more  than  he  had  bar- 
gained for !  It  was  one  thing  to  go  to  London, 
another  to  leave  Rome  !  He  calmly  returned  to 
his  quiet  house  and  his  piano  in  the  Via  della 
Croce,  and  has  remained  there  ever  since,  the 
friend  of  the  Queen,  of  all  true  artists,  of  every 
starving  musical  genius  brought  to  his  notice. 

84 


A  PRESENTATION  TO  LEO  XIII 

That  such  a  man  should  endure  the  drudgery  of 
giving  music  lessons  is  a  fearful  waste  of  fine 
material ;  the  musical  world  should  make  him 
independent,  as  it  made  Wagner. 

If  you  only  stay  long  enough  in  Rome  you 
meet  everybody  you  ever  heard  of :  all  the  world 
comes  here  sooner  or  later.  The  best  thing  about 
the  social  life  is  its  cosmopohtan  quahty.  Among 
the  people  we  see  most  are  a  Greek  woman  (I  had 
almost  written  goddess),  a  Dutchman,  a  Swede, 
a  Dane,  a  Turk,  an  Irish  priest,  and  a  French 
Protestant  pastor.  American  Protestant  houses 
are  no-man's-land,  neutral  ground :  we  have 
visitors  of  every  faith  and  of  all  parties.  One 
Sunday  afternoon  Mrs.  Agassiz,  the  President  of 
RadchiFe  College,  Mr.  Peabody,  the  Master  of 
Groton  School,  and  Mgr.  O'Connell,  the  Director 
of  the  American  College  for  young  priests  in 
Rome,  chanced  to  meet  at  tea  in  my  salon.  There 
are  a  dozen  different  cHques,  all  more  or  less  linked 
together  —  artistic,  musical,  political,  sporting. 
The  people  who  form  "  smart "  society  seem  to 
me  more  cultivated  than  is  usual  with  that  class. 

We  have  lately  returned  from  an  old-furniture 
hunt  at  Viterbo.  We  found  no  furniture,  but 
the   most   picturesque  Roman   Gothic  town  I 

85 


ROMA  BEATA 

have  seen.  When  I  first  knew  Italy  Viterbo 
had  a  bad  name  for  brigands.  The  raikoad  has 
been  open  only  four  years ;  I  hear  no  more  of 
brigands,  though  I  suspect  several  of  my  Viterbo 
acquaintances  once  belonged  to  the  band.  The 
place  is  not  yet  tourist  stricken.  We  slept  in  a 
grim  caravansary  and  went  to  a  villanous  trat- 
toria for  our  meals,  where  we  were  poisoned  by 
the  food.  A  twenty-four-hour  fast  brought  us 
again  into  condition.  Viterbo  is  a  gray  four- 
teenth-century town  with  massive  stone  walls  and 
turrets.  It  has  many  handsome  buildings,  some 
fair  pictures,  good  Etruscan  and  Roman  antiqui- 
ties, but  the  most  admirable  thing  about  it  is  its 
wonderful  completeness.  Everything  hangs  to- 
gether architecturally,  the  parts  are  subservient  to 
the  whole,  the  result  —  grace,  harmony,  repose  ! 
Shall  we  ever  learn  the  trick? 

From  Viterbo  we  drove  to  the  estate  of  the 
Duke  of  Lante,  one  of  the  most  famous  Italian 
villas.  The  present  duke  has  an  American 
mother  and  wife.  We  had  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion from  a  mutual  friend.  All  the  grown-up 
people  of  the  family  were  absent.  We  were  re- 
ceived by  two  tiny  fairies  in  pink  caUco,  who 
took  us  each  by  a  hand  and  led  us  through  the 

86 


A  PRESENTATION   TO   LEO   XIII 

garden  to  see  the  oaks,  the  famous  bronze  foun- 
tain, and  the  interesting  house.  I  never  have 
had  so  lovely  an  escort  or  a  kinder  welcome  than 
the  little  ladies  of  the  Villa  Lante  gave  us. 

February  26,  1898. 

You  will  like  to  hear  about  a  day  of  pure  de- 
light. I  left  home,  duty,  and  family,  and  went 
off  with  Donna  Primavera  for  an  outing  at  Ostia. 
We  started  at  ten  in  the  morning,  returned  at 
six  at  night.  I  had  been  there  before  on  my 
bicycle  —  it  is  a  capital  road  —  but  on  that  occa- 
sion I  saw  nothing  except  the  view.  Ostia  is  an 
ancient  Roman  commercial  town  founded  by 
Ancus  Martins,  the  fourth  of  the  Roman  kings  ; 
that  takes  it  back  to  the  sixth  century  b.  c.  The 
ruins  of  Ostia  are  on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber. 
From  here  the  fleets  of  merchant  galleys  sailed 
away  to  Greece  and  Africa.  I  felt  that  I  was 
penetrating  into  the  business  life  of  the  Romans 
as  never  before.  Of  course,  I  knew  vaguely  that 
there  was  a  great  commerce  underlying  the  whole 
vast  scheme,  supporting  the  army  and  the  art, 
but  I  was  not  prepared  for  the  illumination  I  re- 
ceived in  wandering  through  the  old  warehouses, 
where  we  found  rows  of  vast  amphorae  (earthen- 

87 


ROMA  BEATA 

ware  jars)  which  had  contained  wine,  oil,  and 
grain.  Trade  was  as  important  in  the  time  of 
Augustus  as  in  the  days  of  McKinley.  The 
fleets  that  sailed  into  the  harbor  of  Ostia  brought 
nothing  more  precious  than  the  marbles  from 
Paros  and  Africa.  It  is  said  of  Augustus  that 
he  found  Rome  a  city  of  brick  and  left  it  a  city 
of  marble.  The  threshold  of  the  temple  at  Ostia 
is  a  single  slab  of  africano  sixteen  feet  long,  de- 
licious in  color  —  rose,  gray,  and  black  blended 
in  the  most  adorable  mottlings.  Signor  Lanciani 
tells  me  they  have  lately  discovered  a  large  cargo 
of  precious  marbles  at  or  near  Ostia  which  has 
been  lying  waiting  perhaps  two  thousand  years 
for  the  hand  of  the  builder.  I  should  like  to 
have  a  piece  of  it.  In  Rome  one  learns  to  ap- 
preciate marbles.  I  point  out  the  different 
varieties  to  all  the  friends  from  home  whom  I 
pilot  about  the  city  (there  are  plenty  of  them), 
and  it  is  a  rare  thing  to  find  one  who  knows  the 
difference  between  dpollino  and  serpentino.  Tell 
that  to  the  Kindergartnerins  1 

April  16,  1898. 

Waked  up  at  dawn  this  morning  by  the 
rattling  of  cabs  and  carriages  and  the  footsteps 
of  sixty  thousand  people  going  to  St.  Peter's  to 

88 


A  PRESENTATION   TO   LEO  XIII 

celebrate  the  twenty-first  anniversary  of  the 
Pope's  coronation.  I  had  not  meant  to  go, — 
these  functions  are  such  ah  old  story  to  me,  — 
but  I  could  not  resist  the  magnetism  of  the 
crowd.  The  Borgo  and  the  Piazza  were  black 
vnth  people.  Before  the  obelisk  a  double  cordon 
of  troops  stretched  across  the  whole  Piazza  — 
government  troops,  you  understand ;  the  gov- 
ernment keeps  order  when  the  Pope  goes  to 
St.  Peter's  and  is  responsible  for  his  safety.  The 
Borgo  is  perhaps  the  safest  place  to  live  in  that 
exists  ;  I  have  never  heard  of  any  other  so  care- 
fiilly  guarded.  Inside  the  Vatican  the  Papal 
troops  keep  order.  At  a  certain  point  behind 
the  church  two  sentinels  pace  their  beat,  the 
spot  where  they  meet  marking  the  line  of  the 
exterritorial  limits  of  the  Vatican.  One  sentinel 
wears  the  King's  uniform,  the  other  wears  the 
Pope's ;  they  appear  to  be  on  friendly  terms. 

My  ticket  admitted  me  to  the  bronze  door. 
The  crush  going  up  the  steps  was  terrific  ;  once  in- 
side the  church,  all  was  well.  I  never  have  known 
a  panic  or  a  stampede  in  all  the  many  crowds  I 
have  seen  gather  in  the  great  church  across  the 
way.  In  the  days  of  the  Caesars  the  Romans 
learned  how  to  behave  at  a  great  pageant ;  they 

89 


ROMA  BE  ATA 

have  never  forgotten  the  lesson.  The  Roman 
crowd  is  the  best  behaved  and  most  good-natured 
in  the  world.  Of  course,  there  are  always  people 
who  feel  the  effects  of  being  in  such  a  crush ;  I  saw 
three  women  faint  and  one  man  "  tumble  in  a  fit " 
to-day.  They  were  immediately  canied  to  one  of 
the  hospitals  fitted  up  in  various  parts  of  the  build- 
ing on  all  such  occasions.  It  happened  once  that 
a  child  was  born  in  St.  Peter's  while  a  great  func- 
tion was  going  on  —  I  think  it  was  a  beatification. 
An  aisle  was  kept  open,  by  means  of  movable 
benches,  leading  from  the  Chapel  of  the  Sacra- 
ment, which  communicates  with  the  Vatican,  to 
the  papal  throne,  placed  to-day  for  the  first  time 
since  1870  under  the  chair  of  St.  Peter  at  the 
end  of  the  basilica.  The  walls  were  hung  with 
miles  of  crimson  velvet  and  brocade.  I  like  the 
church  better  plain,  but  it  niade  a  "  soomptuous 
mel^e  "  of  color.  I  saw  the  Crown  Princess  of 
Sweden  and  the  Countess  of  Trani,  sister  of  the 
Empress  of  Austria,  in  the  tribune  reserved  for 
royal  guests.  The  costumes  of  the  papal  court 
are  simply  enchanting.  The  red  and  yellow 
uniform  of  the  Swiss  Guard  never  palls  ;  it  was 
designed  by  Michael  Angelo,  who  had  some 
taste.      The   chamberlains,   some   of  whom   we 

90 


A  PRESENTATION   TO   LEO   XIII 

know,  looked  so  handsome  in  black  velvet  doub- 
lets and  knee  breeches,  with  stiff  white  ruffs 
and  thick  gold  chains  of  office  that  it  was  hard 
to  recognize  them.  The  ambassadors  wore  their 
best  togs,  the  noble  ladies  (they  are  obliged  to 
go  in  black)  all  their  jewels.  The  plebs  in  their 
way  were  quite  as  decorative  as  the  patricians, 
—  peasants  with  goatskin  trousers  and  cioce^ 
monks  and  nuns  of  every  order,  flocks  of  students 
from  the  theological  seminaries  in  the  dress 
Dante  wore.  The  German  students  in  ver- 
milion habits  —  the  scarlet  tanagers  of  the  Roman 
landscape  —  are  the  finest.  The  Pope  was  due 
at  ten ;  at  a  quarter  before  eleven  the  cardinals 
began  to  amve.  Their  dress  is  admu'able ;  it 
never  looks  so  well  as  when  they  are  marching 
down  the  aisle  at  St.  Peter's.  At  eleven  the 
Pope  appeared  in  the  gestatorial  chair  canied 
by  eight  lackeys  in  crimson  brocade :  JNIichael 
Angelo,  they  say,  designed  this  livery  too.  The 
tall  white  feather  fans  carried  in  the  procession 
reminded  me  of  a  bas-relief  on  the  walls  of  the 
ruins  at  Karnak  in  Egypt  representing  the 
Pharaoh  going  in  triumph  to  the  temple. 
Pharaoh's  chair  was  not  unlike  the  sedia  gestato- 
ria,  the   feather  fans  seem  identical,  the  triple 

91 


ROMA  BEATA 

crown  of  the  Pope  is  very  like  the  crown  of 
Upper  and  Lower  Egypt  worn  by  Rameses. 
In  the  midst  of  all  this  swirl  of  color  imagine 
Leo's  alabaster  face  with  the  eyes  of  brown  fire. 
When  he  rose  feebly  to  give  the  benediction 
his  hands  looked  transparent.  There  was  even 
more  shouting  "  Viva  il  papa  re  !  "  than  usual. 
The  Pope  is  as  exquisitely  soigne  as  a  young 
belle ;  his  valet,  Pio  Centra,  —  one  of  whose 
duties  is  to  taste  everything  his  master  eats  or 
drinks,  —  certainly  knows  his  business.  Centra 
is  a  great  personage  and  is  kowtowed  to  by  the 
people  about  the  Vatican. 

The  Pope  safely  on  his  throne,  I  did  not  care 
to  wait  for  the  service  and  watched  my  chance 
of  getting  out.  I  edged  my  way  to  the  vicin- 
ity of  one  of  the  exits  and  waited.  I  soon  saw 
a  gigantic  German  student  —  he  must  have  been 
six  feet  six  inches  tall^ — who  was  evidently  of 
the  same  mind  about  going.  I  managed  to 
slip  in  behind  him  and  follow  in  his  wake. 
When  we  were  close  to  the  door  the  press 
was  so  great  that  I  really  was  frightened ; 
in  another  moment  I  should  have  been  separated 
from  my  giant.  In  desperation  I  seized  the 
streamers   of    red   broadcloth  that   hung    from 

92 


A  PRESENTATION   TO   LEO   XIII 

his  shoulders.  He  looked  behind  him,  saw  a 
woman,  fancied  the  de'il  was  after  him,  and 
fled  for  his  life,  cleaving  the  solid  wall  of  people 
with  his  mighty  elbows.  The  faster  he  ran 
the  tighter  I  held  on,  till  at  last  he  brought  us 
both  through  that  awful  pressure  —  I  thought 
it  would  break  my  ribs  —  down  the  steps  and 
out  into  the  piazza,  where  I  let  him  go.  I  am 
not  sure  which  of  us  was  the  most  frightened ! 
One  of  the  Ghiardia  Nobile  (the  Pope's  Noble 
Guard)  told  me  that  in  the  year  1889  he  was 
on  duty  in  the  Pope's  antechamber  the  night 
after  the  dedication  of  the  statue  of  Giordano 
Bruno  —  a  renegade  Dominican  or  a  great  re- 
former, according  to  your  pohtics  —  on  the  very 
spot  where  in  1600  Bruno  was  burned  at  the  stake 
for  heresy.  The  Pope  was  much  offended,  he 
felt  that  the  Church  had  been  insulted  ;  there  was 
even  talk  of  removing  the  seat  of  the  papacy 
from  Rome.  That  plan,  if  it  ever  was  seriously 
considered,  was  soon  given  up.  The  whole 
matter  had  agitated  the  Pope  tremendously, 
and  the  people  about  him  felt  anxious  about 
his  health.  When  the  usual  hour  passed  for  his 
light  to  be  put  out  they  grew  more  and  more 
nervous.     Eleven,  twelve,  one  o'clock,  still  that 

9^ 


ROMA   BEATA 

thin  line  of  light  under  the  door.  Finally  they 
knocked.  No  answer.  They  gently  opened  the 
door  and  saw  the  old  man  kneeling  weeping  at 
his  priedieu.  Our  friend,  a  man  of  the  world, 
had  been  deeply  moved  by  that  glimpse  through 
the  open  door.  As  for  me,  "  't  is  as  if  I  'd  seen 
it  all." 

Like  Pius  the  Ninth,  Leo  began  by  trying  for  a 
liberal  policy.  The  power  behind  the  throne  — 
the  faction  of  intransigentes  —  was  too  strong  for 
him.  When  he  was  elected  Pope  he  wished  to 
give  his  benediction  to  the  vast  throng  of  people 
in  the  Piazza  from  the  window  over  the  door  of 
St.  Peter's,  as  his  predecessors  had  done.  This 
was  opposed,  but  a  rumor  spread  through  the 
city  that  the  new  Pope  stood  firmly  to  his  in- 
tention. The  Piazza  was  crammed  with  waiting 
people  ;  at  the  Quirinal  the  royal  carriage  stood 
ready  to  bring  the  Queen  to  the  Piazza  to  receive 
the  blessing.  After  a  long  delay  those  who 
watched  with  glasses  saw  a  small  white  figure 
hurrying  down  the  passage  which  leads  to  the 
window.  The  Pope  was  coming  !  Suddenly  the 
white  figure  hesitated,  paused,  turned  back,  re- 
treated. The  way  had  been  barricaded  with 
benches  1 

94 


A  PRESENTATION   TO   LEO   XIII 

Sovereign  Pontiff,  indeed  I  This  was  forcible 
coercion  I 

When  you  stop  to  think  about  it,  nobody  is 
quite  free.  The  freest  man  I  know  is  Scipione, 
the  travelling  knife-grinder.  He  carries  his  tools 
on  his  back,  the  open  street  is  his  shop,  the  people 
he  meets  his  customers.  As  I  sat  at  work  this 
morning  I  heard  the  welcome  sound  of  his  cracked 
bell.  My  knife  being  duller  than  even  I  can  en- 
dure, I  hailed  him  from  the  window.  He  came 
slowly  up  the  long  stair  to  the  landing  outside  the 
old  green  door,  and  bade  me  a  civil  good  morning. 

"  We  have  not  seen  you  for  a  long  time,  I  was 
afi-aid  I  should  have  to  buy  a  new  knife,"  I  said. 

Spipione  let  a  few  drops  of  water  trickle  from 
the  tap  of  the  small  can  fixed  above  his  wheel, 
ran  his  finger  along  the  edge  of  my  penknife, 
held  the  blade  to  the  emeiy  wheel,  and  began  to 
work  the  treadle  with  his  foot. 

"  It  is  quite  true,  I  have  not  passed  this  way 
lately.  You  did  well,  however,  to  wait  for  me. 
Another  might  have  ruined  this  really  desirable 
knife,  whose  beauty  and  value  the  first  comer 
might  not  realize."  Under  my  admiring  eyes,  the 
sparks  began  to  fly  from  the  wheel  —  who  does 
not  work  better  when  watched  by  admiring  eyes  ? 

95 


ROMA  BEATA 

"  That  is  a  good  trade  of  yours,  is  it  not,  Sci- 
pione  ?  "  I  said. 

^^  E  un  arte  civile,  Signora.  Non  c'e  '  boss ' ; 
quando  si  vuole  lavorare,  si  lavora,  quando  si 
vuole  reposare,  si  riposa  (It  is  a  civil  art ;  there  is 
no  *  boss ' ;  when  one  feels  like  working,  one 
works,  when  one  wishes  to  rest,  one  rests)." 

"  You  have  not  told  me  what  kept  you  so  long 
away." 

"  My  grandmother  has  been  ill.  Poverella, 
there  is  nobody  but  myself  to  look  after  her." 

Scipione  is  not  so  free  as  I  had  supposed  I 

"  Where  does  the  nonna  live  ? " 

"  At  Carpineto,  the  paese  of  //  Gran  Ciociaro 
over  there,"  he  nodded  towards  the  Vatican. 
*'  Nonna  remembers  his  Holiness  when  he  was  a 
lad.  She  was  among  those  pilgrims  from  his 
native  town  to  whom  he  gave  an  audience 
the  other  day.  What  do  you  think  he  said  to 
her  ?  He  asked  her  about  the  big  chestnut  tree 
under  whose  shade  he  used  to  walk  when  he  was 
studying  his  lessons.  Do  you  suppose  that 
pleased  her  ?  There  is  no  tree  in  the  world  that 
receives  such  attention  as  the  old  chestnut  tree 
of  //  Gran  Ciociaro  at  Carpineto." 


96 


IN  THE   ABRUZZI   MOUNTAINS 

RoccAHAso,  September  8,  1898. 

We  left  Rome,  the  heat  ah-eady  somewhat  abat- 
ing, on  the  2d  of  September.  Though  we  had 
been  so  anxious  to  get  away,  it  took  an  effort  of 
will  at  the  last.  Action  of  any  kind  was  abhor- 
rent, the  dolcefar  niente  had  us  in  thrall.  We 
finally  got  off  at  nine  o'clock  one  morning,  and 
arrived  here  at  seven  the  same  evening,  having 
changed  cars  at  Solmona,  the  home  of  Ovid, 
where  we  had  an  hour  and  a  half  to  see  the  sights. 
Solmona  is  a  good-sized  town  with  paved  streets, 
interesting  churches,  several  inns,  —  at  any  of 
which  one  might  risk  putting  up,  —  and  a  market- 
place. Piazza  Ovidio,  where  we  bought  a  basket  of 
pears  and  a  flask  of  wine  :  one  or  the  other  made 
us  very  ill ;  it  is  much  safer  to  bring  along  provi- 
sions for  such  a  journey.  The  train  next  passed 
through  a  wide  valley,  one  vast  orchard,  red 
with  apples  "  ripe  and  ready  to  drop "  ;  then  the 
engine  began  to  tug,  tug,  up  into  the  mountains. 
7  97 


ROMA   BEATA 

The  road  is  a  strategical  railway,  built  not  to 
meet  any  demand  of  traffic  or  travel,  but  for  the 
transportation  of  troops. 

"Roccaraso  is  the  highest  railroad  station  in 
Europe,"  said  the  proud  person  in  uniform 
who  took  our  tickets.  Government  owns  and 
operates  all  railroads ;  the  employes  are  gold- 
laced,  red-tape  government  officials ;  this  one 
controls  telegraph,  mail,  express  —  all  intercourse 
with  the  outer  world.  We  therefore  forbore 
to  mention  Brenner,  the  station  in  the  Alps 
between  the  Austrian  Tyrol  and  Italy,  which 
I  believed  to  be  even  higher. 

The  town  of  Roccaraso  is  above  the  station,  a 
castello  perched  aloft  on  a  spur  of  one  of  the 
upper  Abruzzi.  Below  us  is  a  wide,  flat  valley,  all 
around  us  are  crowding  blue  mountains,  head 
rising  above  head,  like  inquisitive  giants  peeping 
over  one  another's  shoulders.  The  air  is  like  rare- 
fied electricity ;  the  water  has  been  tested  and 
guaranteed  absolutely  pure  — you  know  bad  water 
is  the  danger  of  these  remote,  primitive  villages. 
Our  friend,  the  Marchesa  di  V.,  asked  the  engi- 
neer who  laid  out  the  railroad  (it  has  been  open 
only  a  few  months)  to  find  her  a  healthy  place 
for  the   summer.      He   recommended   this   un- 

98 


li(tccaraso 
From  a  p«noU  drawing 


l  ilV- 


w  af 


IN  THE  ABRUZZI   MOUNTAINS 

known  mountain  fastness.  Here  she  retired 
with  her  bambini  early  in  Jime.  Having  made 
herself  comfortable,  she  prepared  to  make  us  so : 
hired  a  pleasant  apartment  for  us,  —  it  belongs 
to  the  widow  of  the  ex-mayor,  lately  defunct,  — 
ordered  the  landlady  to  give  it  three  coats  of 
whitewash,  engaged  Elena,  a  stout  wench,  to 
scrub,  do  the  heavy  work,  and  fetch  water  from 
the  village  fountain,  and  bade  us  "  come  on." 
We  came,  bringing  our  guardian  angel  Vittoria, 
the  tall  seamstress,  to  cook  and  take  care  of  us. 
Cornelia,  mother  of  the  Gracchi,  must  hav^e  looked 
like  our  Vittoria  —  calm,  gentle,  with  rare  sweet- 
ness and  remarkable  beauty.  We  sent  up  from 
Rome  oil,  wine,  vinegar,  and  groceries  enough  to 
last  out  our  stay.  The  Marchesa  has  a  loaf  of 
bread  come  by  mail  every  day  from  Rome  for 
the  babes  ;  she  is  a  woman  of  resource,  she  does 
the  impossible,  the  only  thing  worth  doing  I 
Elena's  mother  makes  bread  for  us ;  it  is  coarse 
and  rather  hard,  but  it  suits  us  well  enough. 
This  is  the  most  primitive  Italy  we  have  yet  seen. 
Neither  butter,  meat,  nor  Parmesan  cheese  (quite 
as  important)  can  be  had  here.  The  wine  is 
detestable,  vino  cotto  (cooked  wine),  brought  up 
in  goatskins  from  the  valley  below  on  muleback. 

99 


ROMA   BEATA 

We  are  above  the  grape  and  olive  belt ;  our 
meat  comes  twice  a  week  from  Castel  di  Sangro, 
four  miles  off ;  our  butter,  every  other  day,  from 
Pesco  Costanzi,  two  miles  away,  via  the  girls 
express  established  by  the  Marchesa. 

Our  apartment  (it  costs  fifteen  dollars  a  month) 
is  over  the  village  school ;  it  has  its  own  separate 
entrance,  through  a  grim  paved  court-yard, 
where  Vittoria  keeps  the  turkey  or  chicken  she 
is  fattening  for  us.  You  ring  a  bell ;  whoever 
is  within  pulls  a  string  which  lifts  the  latch. 
You  go  up  two  flights  of  massive  stone  stairs 
to  reach  the  living  part,  where  we  have  a  decent 
bedroom,  a  fair,  formal  salon,  dining-room,  and 
a  kitchen  —  such  a  kitchen  !  The  ex-mayor's 
family  must  have  lived  in  this  room,  except  on 
high  days  and  holidays,  when  they  perhaps  sat 
upon  the  deceitful  parlor  chairs  and  sofas  — 
which  had  all  been  pasted  together  for  our 
benefit  and  broke  down  at  the  first  trial.  The 
kitchen  is  an  immense,  smoke-browned  room, 
with  a  big  fireplace  at  one  end,  where  all  the 
cooking  is  done.  Copper  pots  and  kettles  hang 
from  the  iron  crane,  a  spit  stands  on  the  hearth, 
strings  of  red  peppers  swing  from  the  rafters. 
There  are  no  bellows ;  to  coax  the  blaze,  Elena, 

100 


IN  THE  ABRUZZI   MOUNTAINS 

the  vestal,  kneels  and  blows  through  a  long  iron 
tube,  her  breath  coming  out  through  the  mouth 
of  the  snake's  head  at  the  end.  It  is  cold  to- 
night ;  the  kitchen  is  the  only  warm  place ;  I 
am  writing  close  to  Elena's  rousing  brushwood 
fire.  Outside  there  is  a  howling  wind,  inside 
a  leg  of  mutton  revolves  slowly  on  the  spit. 
Every  moment  I  expect  to  see  the  King  of  the 
Golden  River  blow  down  the  chinmey  and  beg 
for  a  slice  of  that  savory  roast. 

RoccASASO,  September  16,  1998. 

We  are  hving  in  the  pastoral  age  I  Each 
family  in  Roccaraso  supplies  its  own  needs,  asks 
httle  of  its  neighbors  and  of  the  outside  world 
—  nothing  but  salt,  wine,  and  oil.  Life  is  set  to 
the  tune  of  "  The  Poor  Little  Swallow."  We 
wake  in  the  early  morning  to  "  povera  rondinella, 
O  povera  rondinella  !  "  sung  by  the  women  and 
girls  trudging  up  from  the  valley  with  bundles  of 
fagots  on  their  heads  for  the  winter  woodpiles. 
They  are  busy  preparing  for  the  long,  cold  season, 
which  falls  early  hereabouts.  Acorns  for  the 
pigs,  fodder  for  the  cows,  goats,  and  sheep,  dried 
peas,  beans,  and  com  for  the  humans  must  all  be 
carefully  stored  away.     For  several  days  we  have 

101 


ROMA  BEATA 

watched  the  women  winnowing  the  chaff  from  the 
wheat.  At  sunrise  yesterday  half  a  dozen  girls 
started,  each  with  a  heavy  sack  of  grain  on  her 
head,  to  walk  to  the  nearest  grist-mill,  seven  miles 
away.  At  sunset  they  came  back  carrying  the 
precious  flour,  which  must  be  preserved  with 
extreme  care.  Good  or  bad,  it  is  their  mainstay 
through  the  severe  winter ;  if  it  should  mildew, 
they  would  eat  it  all  the  same,  with  the  fear  of 
the  dreadful  pellagra  in  their  hearts. 

The  government  doctor,  who  goes  periodically 
about  the  country  to  visit  the  sick  and  is  an 
intelligent  man,  —  standing  rather  too  much  on 
his  dignity  for  comfortable  intercourse,  but  a 
perfect  mine  of  information,  —  saj'^s  that  pelkL- 
gra,  endemic  in  some  parts  of  Italy,  comes 
from  the  poor  food  the  people  eat,  chiefly 
from  the  mildewed  flour.  It  is  a  skin  disease, 
which  produces  a  painful  red  eruption,  and  all 
sorts  of  nervous  and  other  horrors.  From  the 
autumn  when  the  few  green  vegetables  they 
raise  are  consumed  till  they  are  again  ripe  the 
following  summer,  the  people  live  on  polenta, 
made  of  cornmeal,  macaroni,  potatoes,  dried 
peas,  and  sheep's-milk  cheese.  In  case  of  ill- 
ness a  little   meat  to  make  broth   is   procured, 

102 


IN  THE   ABRUZZI   MOUNTAINS 

otherwise  the  diet  is  vegetarian,  except  on  Christ- 
mas and  Easter,  when  several  families  club  to- 
gether to  make  a  feast,  and  one  peasant  kills  a 
sheep  or  a  goat,  having  agreed  with  his  neighbors 
which  part  of  the  animal  shall  be  allotted  to 
each. 

We  have  made  friends  with  our  opposite  neigh- 
bor the  belle  of  Roccaraso,  a  modern  Penelope. 
We  found  her  at  her  loom  as  usual,  in  a  tiny  stone 
cottage,  the  floor  plain,  trodden  earth,  the  walls 
roughly  plastered  inside.  She  is  even  prettier 
seen  close  at  hand  than  through  the  window  ;  she 
wears  the  Roccaraso  dress  —  you  know  each 
village  has  its  own  special  costume.  This  is 
plainer  than  many  of  them,  but  good  and  appro- 
priate. Over  her  head  she  wears  a  square  of 
hnen  edged  with  lace,  folded  to  cover  the  neck 
and  lower  part  of  the  face  (older  women  are 
particular  to  hide  the  mouth),  a  full  skirt  of  dark 
homespun,  a  black  apron,  and  a  bright  jacket, 
showing  a  colored  kerchief  and  a  full  white 
shirt. 

"Will  the  gentry  do  me  the  favor  of  enter- 
ing?" she  gently  invited  us. 

'*  We  would  not  interrupt  your  work." 

"Enter,  enter  I" 

103 


ROMA  BEATA 

"  If  you  will  go  on  with  your  weaving." 

She  sat  down  at  her  loom  before  a  web  of 
rough  hnsey-woolsey  and  shot  the  shuttle 
threaded  with  red  linen  across  the  woof  of 
black  wool.  We  ordered  a  dress  pattern  of  the 
same  stuff  as  that  she  was  weaving,  and  some 
heavy  white  flannel  striped  with  corn-flower 
blue,  dehcious  in  color  and  fabric. 

"  The  signori  are  North  Americans,  yes  ? 
They  come  from  Pittsbourgo  ? "  Penelope  began. 

"North  Americans,  yes,  not  from  Pittsburg." 
She  was  disappointed,  but  a  visiting-card  partly 
consoled  her. 

"  How  do  you  call  yourself  ? "  J.  asked. 

"  Mariuccia,  per  servirla" 

"  This  yarn  you  weave  with,  Mariuccia,  tell  us 
where  it  came  from?"  She  seemed  astonished 
at  the  question,  took  a  distaff*  from  a  nail,  and 
showed  us  how  she  used  it. 

'*  'Gnor,  I  made  the  yarn  with  this  rocca  ;  so, 
how  else  ? " 

"  And  the  wool,  where  did  you  get  that  ?  " 

"  'Gnor,  from  my  own  sheep." 

"  Can  you  spin  flax  also,  and  weave  linen  ? " 

"  Altro  !  "  She  lifted  the  cover  of  an  old  mar- 
riage-chest —  it  smelt  of  lavender. 

104 


IN  THE  ABRUZZI   MOUNTAINS 

"Behold  my  coi'redo.''  The  chest  held  the 
linen  she  had  woven  for  her  marriage,  —  towels, 
sheets,  table-cloths,  and  napkins,  enough  to  last 
her  lifetime. 

"  See  what  Andrea  sent  me  "for  Natale " 
(Christmas).  She  took  out  of  the  cassone  a  pair 
of  high-heeled,  pointed-toed  boots  —  they  would 
have  crippled  her  in  a  week  —  and  a  pair  of 
American  storm  rubbers. 

"  The  accursed  ones  of  the  Dogana  forced  me 
to  pay  three  francs  duty  upon  these  original 
shoes  ;  in  confidence  between  us  two,  I  cannot 
wear  them." 

"  The  cioce  are  better  for  you.  Where  did 
these  come  from  ? " 

"  My  husband,  he  sent  them  to  me.'* 

"  From  Pittsbourgo  ? " 

"  'Crnor,  si,  he  is  a  cutter  of  stone  at  that 
place." 

"  Why  are  you  not  with  him  ? " 

"  'Gnoi\  the  great  fear  of  the  sea.  Besides, 
Andrea  is  a  good  husband,  he  sends  me  money 
every  month  from  Pittsbourgo." 

There  you  have  the  secret  of  Mariuccia's 
superiority :  Andrea  is  a  good  husband  and  sends 
her  money  from  Pittsburg,  therefore  she  alone 

105 


ROMA  BEATA 

of  all  the  women  is  exempt  from  work  in  the 
fields.  She  is  personally  neat  and  keeps  her  two 
rooms  clean.  Her  cousin,  a  slatternly  creature, 
living  next  door,  and  evidently  the  beauty's 
guardian,  —  asked  us  into  her  house.  In  spite 
of  our  curiosity  to  see  interiors  we  quailed  at  the 
threshold  of  that  hovel  inhabited  by  the  village 
naturale  (simpleton),  who  is  brother  to  Mariuc- 
cia's  cousin,  a  large  turkey  gobbler,  and  several 
hens. 

As  we  took  leave,  Mariuccia  shyly  pulled  nay 
sleeve.  "  When  the  signori  return  to  America 
they  will  take  a  passeggiata  one  day  to  Pitts- 
bourgo  to  see  my  Andrea,  yes  ? "  she  whispered. 

^^  FigUa  mia,  from  our  paese  it  would  take 
twelve  hours'  travelling,  even  by  the  railroad,  to 
reach  Pittsbourgo."  Mariuccia  smiled  incredu- 
lously, she  did  not  believe  us  but  was  too  polite 
to  say  so. 

J.  says  that  when  Mariuccia  goes  to  mass  she 
carries  the  American  shoes  on  her  head  (I  think 
when  he  met  her  she  mitst  have  been  taking 
them  to  show  to  some  friend)  and  wears  cioce  on 
her  feet.  To  fit  the  cioce  to  the  foot  of  the 
wearer,  a  square  of  cowhide,  with  the  hair  still 
on,  is  soaked  in  water  till  it  becomes  soft  and  pli- 

106 


Maria,  a  Festal  of  the  Abruzzi 

From  a  pencil  drawing  in  the  Collection  of  Mrs.  Whitman 


iiBOiUidyff  MU  )o 


!iet  ht'i 


m  work  in  the 
,  her  two 


• 


• 


IN   THE   ABRUZZl   MOUNTAINS 

able  ;  a  hole  is  then  made  in  each  of  the  four  cor- 
ners of  the  hide  ;  the  foot  is  placed  on  the  damp 
leather,  leathern  thongs  are  passed  through  the 
holes  and  wound  round  and  round  the  leg  and 
tied  at  the  knee,  so  that  the  ciociari,  as  the 
wearers  of  the  cioce  are  called,  go  cross-gartered 
like  Malvolio.  When  the  cowhide  is  dry  it  has 
taken  the  shape  of  the  foot,  and  this  simplest  of 
all  footgear  is  ready  to  wear. 

The  flat  pad  worn  on  the  head  to  support  the 
water-jar  is  Mariuccia's  pocket.  It  is  the  obvious 
place  to  carry  things.  When  there  is  no  heavier 
burden  of  wood  or  water,  her  knitting  or  door 
key  takes  its  place.  I  sent  Elena  with  a  packet  to 
the  Marchesa  to-day  —  of  course,  she  put  it  on 
her  head.  As  it  contained  nothing  but  chiffon, 
the  wind  sent  it  whirling,  and  Elena  said  "  Sfortu- 
nata  !  '*  Her  httle  sister,  Tina,  three  years  old, 
balances  a  block  of  wood  on  her  head  and  toddles 
alongside  when  Elena  goes  to  draw  water  at  the 
fountain  ;  she  is  learning  the  art  of  burthen-bear- 
ing. Marta,  who  is  six,  —  the  age  at  which  the 
vestals  were  admitted  to  the  novitiate,  —  has 
sole  charge  of  the  household  fire.  When  her 
mother  and  grandmother  toil  up  fi'om  the  valley 
with  their  mighty  loads  of  fagots,  Marta  trots 

107 


ROMA   BEATA 

gallantly  beside  them  under  her  small  load  of 
brush  for  kindling. 

"  Why  does  not  your  brother,  Francesco,  help 
to  carry  up  wood  ?  "  we  asked  INlarta.  She  shook 
her  firm  little  head  : 

"'Gnor,  questo  non  elavoro  da  uomo  (That  is 
not  man's  work)."  Francesco  is  eight ;  his  hair 
is  a  golden  fleece,  his  cheeks  are  red  apples. 

I  notice  that  no  man  carries  weights  on  his 
head  ;  if  by  a  rare  chance  he  has  a  load  to  carry, 
he  takes  it  on  his  back.  We  asked  the  doctor  if 
the  splendid  port  of  the  women  came  from  the 
caryatid  act.  He  said  it  was  possible,  but  that 
the  price  was  high.  "  So  many  of  the  poor  crea- 
tures die  of  consumption.  Only  the  strongest 
resist."  Here  is  the  survival  of  the  fittest  with 
a  vengeance  I 

We  are  good  friends  ^dth  the  sindaco  of  Roc- 
caraso,  a  social  soul  pleased  with  an  opportunity 
of  enlightening  the  stranger.  His  village  has  a 
population  of  seventeen  hundred,  mostly  old 
men,  women,  and  children.  Four  hundred  of  the 
young  men  are  in  "  Pittsbourgo,"  most  of  them, 
like  Andrea,  stone-masons.  Others  are  stable- 
strappers  at  Rome  or  Naples.  The  only  able- 
bodied  men  we  have  seen  at  work  are  the  barber 

108 


IN   THE  ABRUZZI   MOUNTAINS 

and  the  blacksmith.  The  women  do  practically 
all  the  work  of  the  community  ;  they  dig,  plough, 
sow,  and  reap.  The  free,  proud  bearing  this  gives 
them  is  wonderful ;  their  beauty  surpasses  behef. 
Michael  Angelo's  sibyls  spin  at  every  street  cor- 
ner, Raphael's  Madonnas  suckle  their  children  at 
every  doorway.  The  old  women  are  either  strong 
and  upright,  like  Elena's  grandmother,  or,  if  they 
go  to  pieces  and  crouch  into  withered  crones,  it 
is  with  an  admirable  sombre  dignity.  We  have 
only  once  been  begged  from :  a  very  old  woman, 
—  she  looked  like  Vedder's  Cumsean  sibyl, — 
evidently  ill  and  suffering,  and  distinctly  not  a 
professional  beggar,  after  looking  furtively  about 
to  see  if  any  one  were  in  sight,  laid  hold  of 
the  hem  of  my  dress  and  asked  for  money.  She 
touched  her  hand  to  her  lips  before  and  after  re- 
ceiving it,  as  they  do  in  the  orient.  We  fancy  we 
come  across  other  traces  of  Saracen  influence  (they 
overran  this  part  in  the  Dark  Ages)  in  three- 
year-old  Tina's  tiny  frock  covering  her  down  to 
the  feet,  and  the  way  the  women  hide  their 
mouths  when  a  stranger  passes.  In  a  town  to 
the  southward  the  women  wear  veils,  which  they 
draw  half  over  their  faces  when  out  of  doors. 


109 


ROMA   BEATA 

RoccABASo,  September  25,  1898, 

Still  in  this  sublime  place,  keyed  up  and  braced 
famously  by  the  fine  air.  No,  the  name  is  not 
Roccarasa,  though  the  mistake  is  perfectly  natural. 
Roccaraso  is  an  abbreviation  of  Rocca  del  Rasino, 
rock  of  the  Rasino,  the  name  of  the  stream  running 
through  the  valley.  The  walled,  fortified  town 
was  founded  in  the  fifth  century  ;  it  has  changed 
very  little  since.  Late  this  afternoon  we  stumbled 
up  the  badly  paved  street,  passed  out  under  the 
ancient  gateway  between  the  two  ruined  towers, 
down  the  steep,  stony  way  to  the  sheepfolds  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill.  The  girls  were  waiting  to 
milk  the  flocks  driven  up  from  the  valleys  and 
down  fi:om  the  hills  by  the  shepherds  and  their 
dogs.  From  the  distance  came  the  song  of  the 
"  Little  Swallow  "  played  on  a  pipe  by  Francesco, 
who  tends  a  composite  flock  of  sheep  and  goats. 
In  the  early  morning  Francesco  passes  through 
the  town  calling  his  herd  together.  At  the 
sound  of  his  voice  four  brown  sheep  file  down 
the  steps  from  the  house  opposite,  a  black  goat 
and  five  white  sheep  patter  out  from  Mariuccia's 
spare  chamber  —  the  very  sheep  whose  wool  is 
being  spun  and  woven  for  my  cream-colored 
flannel.     This  evening  Francesco  and  his  flock 

110 


IN  THE  ABRUZZI   MOUNTAINS 

reached  the  folds  before  all  the  others.  Mariuc- 
eia's  shaggy  black  goat  made  an  odd  grunting 
noise  as  it  walked. 

"Do  all  the  goats  here  have  such  strange 
voices?"  we  asked  Francesco. 

"  'Gnor^  no,  this  animal  was  brought  up  with  a 
litter  of  pigs;  in  this  manner  he  learned  their 
language." 

Elena's  grandfather,  Giacomo,  the  chief  of  the 
shepherds,  came  in  next,  leading  his  blind  cosset 
lamb  and  knitting  as  he  walked :  a  tall,  stern, 
gnarled  old  man,  with  white  hair  and  keen  eyes, 
over  six  feet  tall,  past  seventy  years  old.  His 
dress  is  handsome  and  substantial :  dark  blue 
homespun  knee  breeches,  jacket  and  leggings, 
with  silver  buttons ;  a  wide  felt  hat,  and  a  long 
black  cloak  lined  with  green  baize.  He  has  two 
dogs,  lean  and  fierce,  with  wiry  white  hair, 
pointed  noses,  and  careworn  faces.  They  have 
heavy  collars  studded  with  sharp  iron  spikes. 

"  Good-evening,  Sor'  Giacomo,  how  goes  it  ? " 

"  'GnoTy  badly.  Last  night  the  wolves  carried 
off  the  calf  I  was  fattening  for  Christmas." 

"  Where  were  the  dogs  ? " 

"  They  keep  watch  at  the  folds  ;  the  calf  was  at 
my  cottage."     He  counted  the  sheep  as  they  filed 

111 


ROMA  BEATA 

through  the  wicket  into  the  pen.  "  Venf  uno, 
venti  due;  it  is  early  for  wolves,  but  —  one  under- 
stands it  —  yesterday  I  met  the  padre  of  Pesco 
Costanzi." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  your  calf  or  the 
wolves  ? " 

Sor  Giacomo  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went 
on  counting  his  sheep.  We  understood:  the 
priest  of  Pesco  Costanzi  has  the  "  malocchio " 
(evil  eye). 

"  How  many  are  your  sheep,  Sor'  Giacomo  ? " 

"  Trenta  (thirty),  as  you  see." 

"  It  was  not  always  so ;  formerly  there  were 

"  'Gnor,  si.  When  I  was  Francesco's  age  my 
father  had  five  thousand  sheep  in  his  care.  In 
those  days  we  of  the  Abruzzi  raised  wool  for 
the  whole  kingdom,  for  the  world,  if  you  will. 
Now  it  is  finished  :  these  poor,  miserable  ones 
scarcely  suffice  to  clothe  Roccaraso." 

"  Why  is  this  thing  so  ? " 

"  Why  ?  because  of  an  infamy.  Understand, 
since  that  castello  was  built, — who  knows  how 
long  ago  ?  —  since  that  time  at  the  season  when 
the  white  (snow)  comes,  when  the  earth  sleeps,  we 
of  the  Abruzzi  have  always  had  the  right  to  drive 

118 


IN   THE   ABRUZZI   MOUNTAINS 

our  sheep  down  to  the  plains  of  ApuHa,  there  to 
graze  through  the  winter.  In  a  moment  the 
thing  is  changed,  the  old  right  is  taken  away,  we 
are  forbidden  to  drive  down  our  sheep.  But  is 
the  winter  changed  ?  are  the  wolves  banished  ? 
does  the  grass  grow  all  the  year  in  these  moun- 
tains ?     I  tell  you  it  is  finished." 

Giacomo  is  right,  it  is  finished ;  he  is  one  of 
the  last pastori Abruzzesi.  It  is  a  pity;  fourteen 
centuries  of  herding  sheep  have  produced  a  pur 
sang-  I  have  not  often  seen.  The  people  here- 
abouts have  that  proud  look  of  race  that  the 
Bishereen  of  Egypt  and  some  of  the  American 
Indians  have.  "  Moglie  e  buoi  ai  paese  suoi 
(wives  and  cattle  from  your  own  country)  "  is  a 
rule  rarely  broken.  The  old  shepherd-kings  of 
the  Abruzzi  married  only  hill  women,  scorning  the 
effete  race  of  the  plain,  the  vitiated  blood  of  the 
cities.  Giacomo  cannot  understand  a  people 
particular  about  the  breeding  of  horses  and  dogs 
careless  about  the  breeding  of  men.  He  said  to 
his  granddaughter  Elena: 

"  What !  you  wish  to  marry  that  poor,  sickly 
fellow,  Paolo  ?     Do  you  think  more  of  yourself 
than  of   your  family?     Lucky    for    you    your 
parents  were  not  so  selfish  and  imprudent," 
8  lis 


ROMA   BE  ATA 

Elena  has  given  up  Paolo.  She  wants  to  go 
to  Rome  with  us,  to  earn  a  little  money  to  add 
to  her  dote,  so  that  she  may  have  pretensions  to 
make  as  good  a  marriage  as  Mariuccia !  The 
mariage  de  convenances,  you  see,  is  as  much 
the  rule  among  the  Italian  peasants  as  among 
the  aristocrats. 

We  walked  to  Pesco  Costanzi  yesterday 
through  the  green  valley,  where  the  hobbled  don- 
keys were  grazing,  and  over  a  golden  pasture 
infested  with  talkative  geese.  All  the  able- 
bodied  women  were  at  work  in  the  glorious  fields, 
threshing  oats,  shelling  corn,  drying  beans.  In 
the  village,  humpbacked,  crippled,  invalid  women 
sat  at  the  doors  of  their  dark  cottages  making 
lace.  The  Marchesa  first  discovered  the  survival 
of  an  ancient  lace  industry  in  this  hamlet.  In 
the  days  of  the  Medici,  girls  from  Pesco  Costanzi 
found  their  way  to  Florence,  on  some  sort  of 
scholarship,  and  brought  back  the  art  of  lace- 
making,  and  the  fine  renaissance  patterns  of  that 
time  which  the  women  make  to  this  day.  We 
like  it  better  than  any  peasant  lace  we  have  seen, 
and  have  ordered  several  patterns  of  it,  the  doctor 
undertaking  to  remit  the  money  and  deUver  the 
goods. 

114 


IN  THE  ABRUZZl   MOUNTAINS 

On  the  way  back  to  Roccaraso  we  passed  by  the 
tiny  hamlet  of  Pietro  Anzieri,  where  we  saw  a 
man  ploughing  a  desolate  patch  of  land  with  the 
forked  branch  of  a  tree  shod  with  a  long  iron  point, 
a  primitive  kind  of  plough  I  remembei"  to  have 
seen  represented  in  an  Etruscan  wall  painting. 
We  loitered  by  the  way,  watching  the  lone  man 
at  work,  whereat  he  stopped,  leaned  on  his  plough, 
and  hailed  us  with  the  best  Bowery  accent. 
"  Say,  are  youse  from  the  Yernited  States  ? " 
"  Oh,  yes,  we  are  North  Americans." 
"Of  course ;  I  see  that.    I  come  from  New  York 
myself     How  you   like   Pietro   Anzieri  ?     Too 
slow  for  me  ;  I  only  come  to  see  my  old  mother ; 
go  back  next  month;  got  a  job  at  Pittsbourgo." 
He  was  a  hearty  fellow,  twenty- two  or -three 
years  old,  a  good  type  of  the  Abruzzi  peasant, 
plus  the  American  expression. 

"  How  long  have  you  lived  over  there  ? " 
"  Since  I  was  a  leetle  boy  —  eleven  or  twelve, 
I  dunno." 

The  doctor  says  that  most  of  those  who  go  out 
to  America  under  the  age  of  twenty  take  root  in 
our  country  and  stay  there.  Men  of  thirty  only 
remain  long  enough  to  "  make  their  pile,"  coming 
back  to  Italy  to  grow  old  and  spend  it. 

115 


ROMA  BEATA 

RoccARASo,  September  28,  1898. 

To  Castel  di  Sangro  this  morning:  a  gay 
market-town  set  in  a  flowery  meadow  beside  a 
small  river  widening  below  the  bridge  into  a 
pond  where  the  women  were  washing  clothes.  I 
thought  I  recognized  a  pink  shirt  being  beaten 
between  two  stones  as  one  of  J.'s,  which  Elena 
ought  to  have  herself  washed.  Her  aunt  hves 
here.  Perhaps  she  is  a  washerwoman  I  We  were 
puzzled  by  the  name,  Castel  di  Sangro,  —  the 
castelU  are  all  hill  towns,  —  till  we  learned  that 
the  inhabitants  several  hundred  years  ago  de- 
serted the  original  Castel  di  Sangro,  perched 
on  a  hill  even  harder  to  climb  than  Roccaraso's, 
and  moved,  bag  and  baggage,  down  to  the  plain 
and  founded  the  present  town.  The  fibre  of  the 
race  had  softened  since  the  founders  built  that 
crumbling  ca*^<?//o  /  We  climbed  to  the  top;  the 
view  was  well  worth  the  stiff  walk.  The  old 
town  is  now  a  city  of  the  dead.  Long  lines 
of  black  numbered  crosses  mark  the  graves. 
Where  they  stopped  a  wide,  deep  open  trench 
began.  An  old  fellow,  a  sort  of  rustic  sacristan, 
who  had  come  up  to  clean  the  church,  was  the 
only  person  in  sight. 

"  What  is  that  trench  for? "  we  asked  him. 
116 


IN  THE  ABRUZZI  MOUNTAINS 

"  'Gnor,  who  can  tell  which  of  us  it  may  serve 
as  a  bed  ?  In  summer  we  "prepare  for  winter  ; 
when  the  earth  is  frozen  hard  we  cannot  break 
her  crust  to  bury  the  dead."  He  went  back  to 
the  church  and  began  to  toll  the  bell. 

Looking  down,  we  saw  a  funeral  procession 
like  that  in  Siegfried  climbing  slowly  up  the 
narrow,  steep  mountain  path.  We  went  down 
by  a  steep  track  on  the  other  side  to  avoid 
meeting  it. 

We  lunched  at  the  inn ;  J.  ordered  trout  (the 
stream  is  aUve  with  them),  which  were  served 
pickled !  Everything  else  was  very  good.  It 
was  a  market  day,  and  the  town  was  full  of 
people ;  one  dealer  wished  to  sell  us  a  horse, 
another  offered  a  cow  with  a  crumpled  horn. 
Everywhere  the  women  were  busy  making 
conserva  di  pomodoro ;  outside  the  windows  of 
nearly  every  house  were  wooden  bowls  full 
of  mashed  tomatoes  evaporating  in  the  sun. 
This  conserve  is  the  staple  condiment  of  ItaUan 
cooking,  as  necessary  as  butter  or  Parmesan 
cheese.  The  tomatoes  are  reduced  to  a  stiff 
red  paste,  which  keeps  indefinitely  and  is  used 
to  make  tomato  sauce,  to  dress  risotto^  spaghetti^ 
carciqfiy  served  in  every  conceivable  way.     Being 

117 


HOMA  BEATA 

so  concentrated  it  makes  a  much  richer  sauce 
than  you  can  get  from  canned  tomatoes.  When 
we  got  back  to  Roccaraso  we  found  that  Vittoria 
had  begun  to  prepare  our  winter  supply  of 
conserva  —  it  takes  days  to  make  it.  This  gives 
the  house  a  pervasive  fragrance  of  "golden  apples" 
and  produces  a  comfortable  sense  of  household 
thrift. 

There  is  a  full  moon  to-night:  a  white  mist 
marks  the  line  of  the  Rasino ;  it  is  too  late  in  the 
year  for  nightingales :  from  the  valley  comes  a  faint 
snatch  of  music,  played  on  a  shepherd's  pipe, 
^'povera  rondinella,  O  povera  rondinella!" 


118 


VI 

SCANNO 

RoccARAso,  October  1,  1898, 

Last  Monday  morning,  having  decided  quite 
suddenly  to  go  to  Scanno,  we  applied  to  the 
sindaco  for  horses  and  a  guide. 

"  For  to-morrow,  yes,  I  will  arrange  every- 
thing; for  to-day  it  is  not  possible." 

"  Why  ?  The  weather  is  fine,  it  is  only  nine 
o'clock.  If  we  start  at  noon  we  shall  be  in 
time." 

"  Pazienza,  Signori  I  I  tell  you  it  is  not  pos- 
sible. The  horses  are  at  Pietro  Anzieri  thresh- 
ing oats.  The  guide  has  gone  to  sell  a  pig  at 
Castel  di  Sangro  ;  it  is  market  day." 

"  There  must  be  other  horses.  Do  you  mean 
to  say  there  is  but  one  man  in  Roccaraso  who 
knows  the  road  to  Scanno?  Even  Mariuccia 
has  been  there." 

"  Doubtless  I  many  of  our  women  went  there 
last  year  on  a  pilgrimage.     It  is  not  easy  to  find 

119 


ROMA  BEATA 

a  man  who  knows  the  way:  it  is  a  horrible 
mountain  trail.  I  myself,  Signors,  born  in  Roc- 
caraso,  have  not  seen  Scanno." 

"  We  shall  start  at  twelve  to-day,  if  we  have 
to  walk  and  take  Mariuccia  for  a  guide." 

I  was  sorry  for  the  sindaco,  a  progressive  man, 
with  a  dim  sense  at  the  back  of  his  head  of  a  fu- 
ture for  Roccaraso  if  the  mad  foixstieri  take  a 
fancy  to  it.  He  pulled  his  long  ginger  whiskers 
and  considered. 

"  There  is  Fra  Diavolo,  brother  of  him  I  would 
send  with  you ;  possibly  he  knows  the  way,  but 
I  take  no  responsibihty." 

"  Send  Fra  Diavolo  and  the  horses  at  noon, 
and  the  responsibility  shall  be  upon  our  own 
heads."  He  shook  his  head,  pained  but  indul- 
gent. The  ways  of  the  Jhrestieri  are  becoming 
known  to  him,  and  their  lack  of  that  virtue  of  old 
people  and  old  peoples,  pazienza  ! 

At  quarter  to  twelve  Fra  Diavolo  was  at  our 
door,  with  a  vicious  mule  and  pack-saddle  for 
me,  a  weak-kneed,  blind  horse  with  prehistoric 
trappings  and  saddle-bags  for  J.  We  soon  left 
the  dazzling  white  road,  struck  across  a  grassy 
valley,  and  entered  a  wild,  stony  gorge,  which 
reminded  us  of  the  Colorado  Canyon.     The  path 

120 


SCANNO 

is  the  worst  I  have  seen  outside  of  Palestine. 
We  soon  dismounted  and  let  Fra  Diavolo  lead 
our  beasts.  He  had  to  be  veiy  careful,  lest  they 
should  break  their  legs.  The  walls  of  the  ravine 
towered  on  either  side  of  us ;  to  the  left  the 
granite  rocks,  which  form  the  summit,  seemed  to 
have  been  shaped  into  Gothic  battlements,  tow- 
ers, and  buttresses.  I  could  hardly  believe  that 
nature,  and  not  one  of  the  Sangallo  family  (the 
famous  architects),  had  been  the  designer.  The 
trees  are  of  primeval  growth.  The  gorge  is 
crossed  by  open  plateaus  and  glens  covered  with 
ancient  oaks  and  beeches.  At  three  o'clock  we 
halted  in  a  fairy  dell  beside  a  spring.  The 
water  ran  through  a  trough  made  from  the  hol- 
lowed trunk  of  a  tree.  A  pink-nosed  sheep  was 
drinking  —  the  only  brave  sheep  I  ever  saw,  —  I 
had  a  hand-to-hand  battle  with  him  to  get  my 
share  of  the  water.  Afterwards  J.  and  I  sat 
down  to  rest  and  contemplated  the  trail,  which 
here  divided  into  two. 

"  Which  is  the  way  to  Scanno  ? "  we  asked 
our  guide. 

"  Who  knows,  Signori  ? "  said  Fra  Diavolo. 

"  Do  not  you  ? " 

"No  more  than  yourselves." 

121 


ROMA   BEATA 

"Why  did  you  say  you  could  show  us  the 
way  J 

"  With  the  tongue  one  may  go  to  Sardinia." 

"  But  we  have  been  walking  three  hours ;  for 
the  last  two  we  have  met  no  living  creature  ex- 
cept these  sheep." 

"  Where  there  are  sheep  there  will  be  a  shep- 
herd," said  Fra  Diavolo. 

"  Povcra  r^ondinella,  pove7^a  rondinella  I "  The 
familiar  air  was  played  on  a  shepherd's  pipe. 

"  What  did  I  say  ? "  growled  Fra  Diavolo,  a 
really  cross  person. 

We  came  upon  the  shepherd  a  minute  later. 
He  sat  with  his  back  against  an  oak  playing  on 
a  pipe ;  near  him  a  goat  with  one  hind  leg  in 
splint  cropped  the  grass.  They  both  seemed  as- 
tounded at  seeing  us. 

"  The  way  to  Scanno,  j^^Z/o  mio  V 

"  This  is  not  the  path.  Where  have  the  Sig- 
nori  come  from  ?  Roccaraso  ?  it  is  not  possible  ! 
You  have  come  by  a  trail  only  fit  for  goats  and 
asses.  Why  did  you  not  take  the  mule-path  ? 
That  is  easy  enough." 

"  Well,  for  certain  excellent  reasons  w^e  did 
not  take  the  mule-path,  but  we  are  going  to 
Scanno  all  the  same." 

122 


SCANNO 

"  Truly  ?  Then  take  the  lower  path  —  of  an 
unimaginable  badness !  With  good  luck  you 
may  reach  Scanno  by  Ave  Maria." 

Ave  Maria  is  a  little  puzzling  till  you  learn 
that  it  varies  with  the  season  of  the  year,  and  is 
always  celebrated  fifteen  minutes  after  sunset. 

By  this  time  the  gorge  was  in  shadow,  and 
though  it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  on 
earth,  and  we  knew  we  should  never  see  it  again, 
we  pushed  on  as  fast  as  we  could.  At  sunset 
we  toiled  up  the  high  hill  on  which  Scanno  is 
perched.  It  is  an  old,  gray,  walled  town  ;  the 
gates  stood  open.  At  the  fountain  just  outside 
the  gateway  a  dozen  women  and  girls  were  draw- 
ing water.  The  moment  I  saw  them  I  cried 
out,  "  They  look  like  Greeks."  I  can  hardly  tell 
what  gave  the  impression.  J.  says  it  was  the 
head-dress ;  I  think  it  was  their  expression. 
Their  bearing  was  as  free  and  noble  as  the  Roc- 
carasans',  but  less  friendly.  They  took  no  notice 
of  us,  showed  nothing  of  that  kindly  animation 
and  curiosity  we  usually  find,  though  travellers 
are  scarce  in  these  parts.  I  only  know  one  per- 
son who  has  been  here  —  Enrico  Coleman,  the 
painter.  I  question  if  either  Mr.  Baedeker  or 
Mr.  Hare  have  seen  Scanno.     Edward  Leai-  was 

123 


ROMA   BEATA 

here  in  1856 ;  his  visit  is  the  last  I  have  found 
described  in  guide-bookery.  Here,  1  believe,  he 
met  that  old  person  of  Abruzzi,  "  so  blind  that 
he  could  not  his  foot  see.  When  they  said, 
'  That 's  your  toe,'  he  replied,  '  Is  that  so  ? '  that 
doubtful  old  mt^n  of  Abruzzi." 

He  had  a  certain  stoicism,  you  see,  like  our 
silent  w^omen  at  the  fountain.  Before  going  to 
the  inn  we  stopped  at  a  delicious  gray  stone 
church  near  the  gate,  pushed  aside  the  heavy 
leathern  curtain,  and  looked  in.  The  church, 
decorated  for  a  festa,  blazing  with  candles,  was 
full  of  kneeling  people ;  three  priests  in  superb 
vestments  were  officiating  at  the  altar.  The  air 
was  gray  with  the  smoke  of  incense  ;  the  cracked 
organ  and  harsh-voiced  choristers  were  in  full 
blast.  Somehow,  the  sumptuousness  of  this  ves- 
pers service  was  extraordinarily  moving.  Coming 
suddenly  upon  it  after  our  pilgrimage  over  that 
lonely  trail  made  it  doubly  impressive. 

The  inn  was  filthier  than  we  should  have  be- 
lieved possible  ;  our  rooms  had  not  been  made  up 
since  the  last  occupants  departed.  The  food  was 
incredibly  bad  ;  even  the  spaghetti,  dressed  with 
rancid  oil,  was  uneatable.  The  poor  landlady 
was  so  mortified  at  our  not  eating  things,  and 

124 


SCANNO 

brought  in  the  spaghetti  with  such  an  air  of 
triumph,  that  we  waited  until  her  back  was 
turned  before  we  threw  it  out  of  the  window 
into  a  Uttle,  dark  back  street,  where  the  dogs  de- 
voured it.  We  supped  on  the  ends  of  bread  and 
cheese  from  our  saddle-bags,  and  raw  eggs,  —  the 
cooked  ones,  like  the  spaghetti,  tasted  of  rancid 
oil.  One  of  the  first  things  to  learn,  if  you  mean 
to  travel  in  the  byways  of  the  world,  is  how  to 
take  raw  eggs.  If  you  are  sure  of  your  glass, 
break  your  egg  into  it,  put  a  pinch  of  salt  on  the 
tongue,  and  swallow  white  and  yolk  whole.  If 
the  glass  is  doubtful,  you  must  go  back  to  first 
principles,  and  suck  your  eggs  as  the  rats  do ;  if 
they  are  fresh,  like  the  Scanno  eggs,  there  is  no 
better  way  of  taking  them. 

We  were  so  tired  with  our  six  hours'  tramp 
that  we  went  to  bed  at  half-past  nine  —  and  got 
up  again  at  ten  !  Sleep  was  impossible ;  the 
pleasures  of  the  chase  only  were  ours  that  night. 
We  made  ourselves  as  comfortable  as  we  could 
on  chairs,  wrapped  up  in  the  rugs  without  which 
we  have  learned  never  to  travel.  In  the  dim 
watches  of  the  night  J.  invented  a  portable  bed, 
drawing  the  design  with  a  burnt  match  in  the 
back  of  Baedeker  the  faithless,  who  only  says 

125 


ROMA   BEATA 

that  Scanno  is  the  most  interesting  point  in  the 
Abruzzi,  and  makes  fooHsh  remarks  about  how 
high  it  is,  the  circumference  of  its  lake,  and  such 
dry  details.  While  J.  was  designing  the  portable 
bed,  I  planned  a  foot-note  to  Baedeker,  about 
Scanno. 

We  made  out  better  at  breakfast  than  at  sup- 
per. Remembering  the  saying,  "  An  egg^  an 
apple,  and  a  nut,  you  may  take  from  any  slut," 
we  ordered  boiled  eggs,  potatoes  roasted  in  the 
ashes,  and  some  raw  apples.  Afterwards  we 
walked  about  the  town  and  visited  the  market- 
place, where  we  had  a  good  chance  to  see  the 
strange  costume  of  the  women.  The  head-dress 
is  a  curious  black  turban  covering  the  whole 
head ;  the  hair  showing  behind  the  ears  and  be- 
low the  turban  is  tightly  braided  with  bright- 
colored  wool  —  red,  green,  yellow.  I  fancy  each 
color  has  its  significance  ;  perhaps  one  is  for  maids, 
one  for  matrons,  one  for  widows.  The  short  skirt 
of  heavy  green  cloth  plaited  at  the  waist  is  very 
full,  the  bodice  of  dark  blue  cloth  has  large  leg- 
of-mutton  sleeves  and  fastens  with  pretty  silver 
buttons.  The  high  linen  chemise  showing  at  the 
neck  is  edged  with  handsome  lace  {real,  of 
course,  they   quite  properly  scorn  the  machine- 

126 


SCANNO 

made  variety).  Nobody  offered  to  make  friends 
with  us ;  the  women  held  themselves  proudly 
aloof:  this  was  fine,  but  not  encouraging.  The 
whole  place  is  grave,  gray,  dignified  ;  there  are 
some  important-looking  houses,  one  belonging  to 
a  rich  merchant  has  an  air  of  solid  well-being  and 
thrift.  Next  time  we  shall  take  the  advice  of  the 
sindaco  and  have  pazienza !  If  we  had  given 
him  twenty-four  hours'  notice,  he  would  have 
sent  word  to  the  Mayor  of  Scanno  that  we  were 
coming,  and  we  should  not  have  found  things 
as  we  did  at  the  inn.  We  also  should  have  had 
"to  pay  through  the  nose,"  so  perhaps  it  was 
just  as  well  to  see  Scanno  for  once  au  naturel. 
We  walked  to  the  lake  of  Scanno,  a  mile  from 
the  town,  an  irregular  sheet  of  water  with  misty 
reflections  of  the  bare  gray  mountains  towering 
above  it  and  the  tender  willows  on  its  banks.  In 
the  little  chapel  of  "  L'Annunziata,"  on  the  edge 
of  the  lake,  we  found  hundreds  of  votive  offerings, 
silver  hearts  on  one  side  of  the  shrine,  on  the 
other  discarded  crutches  and  trusses,  hung  up  by 
grateful  sufferers  miraculously  cured  of  their  ail- 
ments. These  reminded  us  of  the  temple  of 
Juno  at  Veii.  You  know  the  great  Etruscan 
town   near  Rome,   where   we   saw   and  bought 

127 


ROMA  BEATA 

those  lovely  Etruscan  terra-cotta  heads,  votive 
offerings  which  the  priests  of  Juno  buried  in  a 
trench  behind  the  temple  when  the  walls  were  too 
full  to  hold  more.  I  wonder  what  the  priests 
of  Scanno  do  with  the  overplus  of  crutches  ? 

Outside  the  chapel  we  found  raspberries,  just 
like  our  red  raspberries,  only  black  ;  they  are  deli- 
cious. The  lake  and  the  raspberries  refreshed  us 
somewhat.  The  spell  of  the  place  —  far  from  the 
beaten  track  of  travel,  where  we  were  neither 
wanted  nor  expected  —  was  very  strong,  but  we 
were  so  worn  that  we  shrank  from  the  terrors  of 
another  night  at  the  inn,  and  our  boots  were  so 
knocked  up  by  yesterday's  climb  that  we  could 
not  face  the  hardships  of  the  trail.  We  consulted 
Fra  Diavolo  ;  he  was  gloomier  than  ever. 

"  If  the  forestieri  are  so  fastidious,  they  might 
go  to  Naples,  the  gioimaliere  —  diligence  —  will 
start  in  an  hour  for  Anversa,  where  they  can  get 
the  train." 

"  Ma  come  si  fa  ?  What  will  become  of  you, 
the  horse,  and  the  mule  ? " 

*'  Yesterday  1  brought  these  abominable  ani- 
mals as  well  as  yourselves  safely  over  that  in- 
famous devil's  road.  To-day  I  return  by  the 
proper  road,  fit  for  a  Christian,  not  merely  for 

128 


SCANNO 

goats  and  asses,"  he  began  angrily ;  then  a  thought 
struck  him  and  he  changed  his  tune : 

"It  is  true  there  are  greater  dangers  in  going 
by  a  strange  road  than  by  one,  however  poor, 
that  one  is  acquainted  with.  The  animals  are 
the  mndacos,  and  more  valuable  than  the  fore- 
stie^i  realize.  Would  they  abandon  me  in  this 
strange  paese,  where  I  have  no  relatives,  not 
even  a  friend  ?  Hearts  of  stone  I  At  least  they 
must  pay  a  man  to  help  lead  back  these  poor, 
abandoned  ones,  which  they  may  despise,  but 
which  the  sindaco  doubtless  finds  useful." 

To  see  Fra  Diavolo  work  himself  into  this 
state  of  righteous  indignation  was  well  worth 
the  price  we  paid  a  man  to  help  convey  the 
blind  horse  and  the  lame  mule  back  to  Roccaraso. 
As  the  diligence  did  not  leave  for  an  hour,  we 
saw  the  caravan  start,  Fra  Diavolo  riding  the 
horse,  the  Scannan  following  upon  the  mule. 

The  carriage  road  leading  down  from  the  town 
is  quite  as  steep,  if  a  trifle  smoother,  than  the 
trail ;  on  one  side  there  is  a  sheer  drop  of  a 
hundred  feet  to  a  stony  gorge  below.  The 
driver  of  the  giornalierc  was  very  drunk ;  the 
harness  of  one  horse,  a  restive  gray,  was  made 
almost  entirely  of  an  old  clothes-line.  As  soon 
9  129 


ROMA   BEATA 

as  we  started  the  gray  sat  down  like  a  circus 
horse,  his  front  feet  firmly  planted  in  the  road  be- 
fore him,  whereupon  the  clothes-line  traces  broke. 

"  What  did  I  say,  Manfredo  ? "  cried  the  driver 
to  the  guard.  "  Would  it  not  have  been  a  sin 
to  put  a  good  harness  on  this  cavallacdo  male- 
detto  ?  I  tell  you  he  has  never  been  driven 
before.  Would  it  be  sensible  to  waste  good 
leather  traces  upon  this  brutta  hestia  ? " 

'*  Zitto,  Orlando  / "  said  the  guard,  who  was 
sober. 

I  am  afraid  I  screamed  to  be  let  down  from 
the  box  seat. 

"Neither  horse,  harness,  nor  driver  is  fit  for 
the  road  if  the  voyagers  wish  to  reach  Anversa 
ahve,"  J.  said  firmly ;  "  send  them  back  immedi- 
ately and  provide  others,  or  I  will  appeal  to  the 
sindaco." 

A  little,  dried-up  man  scrambled  out  from  the 
stuffy  interior  of  the  giornaliere  and  joined  the 
fray. 

"  The  Signor  Marchese  is  right,  Manfredo ; 
send  Orlando  back  with  that  hangman's  brute. 
The  return  diligence  will  be  here  in  ten  min- 
utes ;  we  will  take  one  of  their  animals,  and  you 
yourself  must  drive."     We  waited   a   full   half 

130 


SCANNO 

hour  for  the  incoming  stage.  In  the  crowd  of 
loiterers  that  quickly  gathered  we  recognized 
the  man  we  had  paid  to  help  Fra  Diavolo  lead 
the  animals  back  to  Roccaraso.  *'  What  have 
you  done  with  the  mule  of  his  Excellency  ? " 
J.  asked.  The  fellow  pointed  to  the  trail.  "  He 
is  on  his  way  home.  Fra  Diavolo  found  he 
could  manage  both  beasts  very  well  alone." 

When  the  other  stage  arrived,  Manfredo  per- 
suaded its  driver  to  exchange  one  of  his  horses 
with  us,  and  Orlando  Furioso  to  change  places 
with  him.  A  fat  arch-priest  put  down  the 
window  and  looked  out. 

"What  in  the  name  of  all  the  saints  is  the 
matter  with  that  evil  horse  ? " 

"  Illustrissimo,  the  animal  is  like  one  of  your- 
selves, —  he  does  not  like  to  work,"  said  the  thin 
little  man,  a  lawyer  from  Scanno. 

"  Grazie,  grazie  (thank  you),"  said  the  arch- 
priest,  taking  the  chaff  in  good  part. 

Once  we  had  started,  everything  went  like 
magic.  The  drive  from  Scanno  to  Anversa  is 
as  fine  as  the  Cornice  or  the  Sorrento  drives.  It 
is  mostly  down  hill,  and  took  us  just  three  hours  ; 
the  return  trip  takes  five.  I  had  been  almost 
afraid  to  sit  outside  lest,  after  our  sleepless  night, 

131 


ROMA  BEATA 

1  should  go  to  sleep  and  fall  off,  but  the  great 
gray  mountains  and  the  grim  gray  gorges  kept 
me  awake.  The  road  runs  nearly  all  the  way 
beside  the  river  Saggittario,  which  has  more 
moods  than  one  would  have  imagined  possible 
in  a  single  thread  of  water.  Sometimes  it 
dashes,  white  and  angry,  over  a  rough  bottom 
between  rocky  sides  ;  then  it  spreads  out  into 
clear  pools,  "  alive  with  trout,"  the  lawyer  said. 
Sometimes  it  is  green  and  full  of  fight,  some- 
times brown,  still,  and  lazy.  We  saw  an  eagle 
light  on  a  crag  far  over  our  heads.  We  were 
really  dazed  with  the  wonders  we  had  seen  by 
the  time  we  reached  Anversa,  where  we  took  the 
train.  We  had  to  go  all  around  Robin  Hood's 
bam,  so  that  we  did  not  get  home  to  Roccaraso 
till  after  dark. 

On  our  way  from  the  station  we  were  over- 
taken by  Mariuccia,  who  was  eager  to  hear  how 
we  had  fared. 

*^  Aime,  'Gnor\  when  I  saw  Fra  Diavolo  re- 
turn with  the  animals  and  without  your  illus- 
trious selves  I  was  much  afflicted  !  The  inhabi- 
tants of  Scanno  sono  gente  mal  educata,  e  di 
nessuna  fede  (people  without  breeding  or  good 
faith).     The  sindaco  himself  was  much  alarmed, 

132 


SCANNO 

good  man ;  I  must  take  the  news  to  his  house 
that  you  have  returned  safely." 

*'  What  is  that  you  are  carrying  on  your  head, 
Mariuccia  ? " 

"  'Chiora,  it  is  a  Httle  chest."  It  was  the  most 
fascinating  Httle  cinque  cento  chest  I  ever  saw, 
half  the  usual  size,  finely  carved,  and  looking  as 
if  it  might  be  meant  to  hold  jewels  or  treasure,  as 
indeed  it  was. 

"  To  whom  does  it  belong  ?  Where  are  you 
taking  it  ? "  I  touched  it  with  my  bare  hand  : 
it  was  encrusted  with  earth. 

"  It  belongs  to  one  who  is  forgotten.  I  am 
taking  it  to  the  house  next  yours.  It  is  for  una 
povera  creatura  morta  (a  poor  dead  child).  The 
mother  will  give  the  cassetta  a  thorough  cleaning, 
and  it  will  be  as  good  as  when  it  was  first  put  in 
the  ground." 

"  Good-night,  Mariuccia  I  it  is  cold,  we  must 
hurry." 

*' Andiamo  presto :  Let  us  hasten;  I  too  am 
infrctta  (a  hurry) ;  we  must  carry  the  infant  to 
the  church  to-night." 

There  was  no  getting  rid  of  Mariuccia ;  the  lid 
of  the  chest  clap-clapped  with  every  step  she 
took  ;   the  thing  smelt  of  mortality. 

1.33 


ROMA  BEATA 

"  Where  did  the  chest  come  from  ? " 

"  'Gnora,  a  few  years  ago  when  they  built  the 
railway  an  ancient  cemetery  was  disturbed.  The 
bones  of  those  who  had  been  buried  were  all  put 
into  the  new  graveyard,  and  such  of  the  coffins 
as  were  whole  were  stored  in  that  old  ruined 
church.  When  the  very  poor  have  need,  they 
help  themselves.  I  am  taking  this  to  my  cousin, 
but  1  would  not  have  it  known  by  the  neighbors, 
so  T  waited  till  dark,  and,  as  you  see,  I  am  tak- 
ing it  home  by  the  quietest  way." 

We  were  at  last  at  our  own  door. 

"  Buona  notte,  Mariuccia." 

"  Felicissima  notte,  'Ghiora.'' 

J.  says  things  have  changed  very  little  since 
he  made  his  first  trip  through  the  Abruzzi  in  the 
early  eighties.  He  with  two  other  artists  went 
first  to  Saracinesco,  where  they  stayed  at  the 
house  of  Belisario,  the  son  of  an  old  model  of 
Fortuny's  (the  great  Spanish  painter).  They 
had  heard  about  the  place  from  another  Roman 
model  called  Fagiolo  or  the  Bean.  When  Fagiolo 
was  a  boy,  his  father  gave  him  a  large  bag  of 
beans  one  morning  and  sent  him  out  to  plant  a 
field.  It  was  a  fine,  bright  day,  and  the  boy, 
meeting  other  boys,  decided  to  put  off  his  work 

134 


SCANNO 

till  afternoon  and  went  off  birds'-nesting.  Sud- 
denly the  sun  began  to  set  and  he  realized  that 
he  had  done  nothing  with  the  beans.  He  hurried 
to  the  field,  and  digging  one  deep  hole  buried  all 
the  beans  ;  then  he  went  home. 

"You  are  late,  my  son.  Where  have  you 
been  ? "  asked  the  father. 

"  There  were  many  beans  ;  I  have  planted 
them  all,"  said  the  boy.  By  and  by,  when  it  was 
time  for  vegetables  to  come  up,  the  father  was 
very  much  troubled  that  nothing  came  up  in  the 
bean-field.  One  day  he  discovered  in  the  farth- 
est corner  a  perfect  thicket  of  tangled,  spindly 
beans.  From  that  day  the  boy  was  known  as 
Fagiolo. 

The  three  artists  were  invited  by  Fagiolo  to  a 
feast,  which  J.  describes  as  the  most  primitive  he 
has  ever  shared.  They  found  the  family  all 
gathered  in  the  large  living-room  of  a  rather 
superior  peasant's  house.  The  floor  was  of 
mother  earth,  otherwise  the  room  resembled  our 
own  glorious  kitchen  at  Roccaraso  ;  there  were 
golden-brown  bladders  of  lard  and  strings  of  garhc 
hanging  from  the  ceiling ;  in  front  of  the  open 
hearth  were  hand-wrought  andirons  with  httle 
cages  at  the  top  in  which  the  pipkins  of  food  were 

135 


ROMA  BEATA 

kept  hot.  Fagiolo  made  them  welcome,  and  his 
wife  having  announced  that  th^  polenta  was  ready, 
the  husband  Hterally  laid  the  board.  The  guests 
'and  the  family  seated  themselves,  the  children 
on  wooden  stools,  the  grown-up  people  on  rush- 
bottomed  chairs,  and  Fagiolo  took  a  large  board 
from  the  corner.  With  a  knife  he  scraped  off 
the  dried  meal  sticking  to  it  out  at  the  door,  the 
fowls  gathering  to  feed  upon  the  scrapings.  Then 
he  passed  his  hand  across  the  board  and,  finding 
it  comparatively  smooth,  laid  it  upon  the  knees 
of  the  company,  who  were  sitting  in  a  circle. 
Next  he  took  from  the  crane,  where  it  hung  over 
the  fire,  a  large  three-legged  iron  pot  of  polenta 
(hasty  pudding)  and  emptied  it  upon  the  board. 
His  wife  with  a  long  pudding-stick  spread  out 
the  mush  to  the  proper  thickness,  then  each 
person  staked  out  his  claim  by  drawing  a  circle 
in  the  polenta  with  a  leaden  spoon.  The  small- 
est child,  they  noticed,  drew  the  biggest  circle, 
and  J.  confesses  to  having  drawn  the  smallest. 
Next  Fagiolo  took  from  the  cage  in  the  andiron, 
where  it  had  been  keeping  warm,  a  saucepan 
filled  with  snails  stewed  in  brown  gravy,  and 
helped  each  person  to  a  share  of  the  snails,  put- 
ting it  down  carefully  within  the  limits  of  the 

136 


SCANNO 

circle.  That  was  all  the  feast,  except  the  inevi- 
table vino  di  paese,  which  really  takes  the  place  of 
meat  with  these  people. 

By  the  advice  of  their  host,  Belisario,  the  ar- 
tists had  given  their  money  to  Fagiolo  to  keep, 
as  he  was  known  to  be  honest,  and  would  be  less 
Ukely  to  be  suspected  of  having  it  than  Belisario, 
in  whose  house  they  were  staying.  After  the 
snail  feast  Fagiolo  went  off  to  the  inn.  Flattered 
by  the  honor  the  strangers  had  done  him,  he 
drank  more  than  was  good  for  him,  and  began 
to  boast  of  the  money,  several  hundred  francs, 
the  painters  had  confided  to  him.  The  sum 
grew  in  telling  to  several  thousand,  and  the  news 
getting  to  Belisario  that  Fagiolo  had  boasted  at 
the  inn,  he  begged  the  artists  to  depart  without 
delay,  saying  that  he  could  no  longer  be  respon- 
sible for  their  safety. 

"The  signori  must  depart,  but  to-day,  at 
once  ;  and  yet  they  must  appear  not  to  depart." 

"Explain  yourself.  How  is  it  possible  to 
depart  and  to  appear  not  to  depart  ? " 

"  Ma,  e  sempUcissivio  !  The  illustrious  ones  go 
out  to  sketch  every  day,  is  it  not  so  ?  Well, 
to-day  they  go  as  usual,  but  they  do  not  return, 
and  these  dogs  will  believe  that  they  of  Olevano 

137 


ROMA  BEATA 

have  robbed  them.  The  signori  must  make 
haste  to  reach  Tivoli  before  dark ;  there  are 
brigands  about ;  the  carabinieri  are  on  the  look- 
out for  them." 

"  Nobody  ever  troubles  artists." 

"  For  a  good  reason,  they  are  not  ustially  worth 
meddling  with.  If  it  had  not  been  for  that 
cabbage-headed  imbecile,  Fagiolo  I  Ask  him  if 
I  tell  you  the  truth." 

Fagiolo  was  even  more  frightened  than  Beli- 
sario.     He  actually  wept. 

"  Per  carita,  my  Signors,  depart  I  depart !  If 
you  hope  to  see  another  day,  if  you  would  not 
see  your  poor  Fagiolo,  who  has  served  you  faith- 
fully, put  in  prison  for  your  murder." 

The  three  artists  started,  carrying  their  sketch- 
ing kits,  wearing  their  red  berrettas  (flat  red 
caps,  something  like  Tam  o'  Shanters).  They 
took  the  precaution  to  tuck  their  soft  felt  hats 
inside  their  waistcoats,  and,  leaving  the  rest  of 
their  traps  to  be  sent  after  them,  set  out  merrily 
on  their  sixteen-mile  tramp  to  Tivoli.  The  road 
was  most  beguiling ;  it  leads  through  Vicovaro 
along  the  river  Anio  —  down  which  floated  the 
mother  of  Romulus  with  her  immortal  twins  — 
past  "  Cold  Digentia,"  where  the  winter  birding 

138 


SCANNO 

nets  were  set  on  Horace's  Sabine  farm.  Is  it 
wonderful  that  they  loitered  ?  that  they  even 
delayed  to  make  un  leggero  bozzetto  (just  a  note) 
of  a  small  gray  castello  perched  like  an  eagle's 
nest  on  the  top  of  a  high  hill  ?  A  white  path 
zigzagged  up  to  the  gate,  an  ohve-grove  clustered 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  a  row  of  stone  pines  ran 
along  the  sky  line.  The  mere  "  bozzetti "  grew 
into  serious  sketches.  All  at  once  they  saw  out- 
lined against  the  sky  a  long  procession  of  peas- 
ants coming  back  from  their  work  in  the  fields 
below.  The  women  —  riding  in  pairs  upon  the 
patient  mules  and  asses,  hung  with  bells  that 
jingled  at  every  step  —  were  singing  the  litany, 
the  men  made  the  responses  in  their  gruff  voices. 

"  Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena" 

"  Ora  pro  nobis ! "  then  came  the  guttural 
"  angk,  angk  I  "  of  the  men,  and  the  blows  of  their 
heavy  sticks  upon  the  backs  of  the  poor  beasts. 

"  They  are  singing  the  Ave  Maria,  which  means 
that  it  must  be  late,"  said  the  eldest  of  the  three 
artists,  the  Spaniard,  Catherez.  "  We  must  be 
going." 

It  was  nearly  sunset,  and  they  were  not  half 
way  to  Tivoli.  They  exchanged  their  berrettas 
for  their  felt  hats,  and  began  to  walk  in  good 

139 


ROMA   BEATA 

earnest.     Soon  after  dark  they  met  a  band  of 
carabinieri,  who  brought  them  to  a  halt. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from  ? "    , 

"  Saracinesco." 

"  That  is  so  Hkely  !     From  what  inn  ? " 

"  It  should  be  known  to  you  that  there  is 
no  inn  there  where  one  may  sleep.  We  stayed 
at  the  house  of  Belisario." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? " 

"To  Tivoli." 

It  began  to  rain.  They  thought  they  had 
answered  enough  questions  and  were  impatient 
to  be  off.  J.  was  the  first  to  move.  A  guard 
caught  him  by  the  coat  and  began  to  feel  of 
him  suspiciously. 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ? "  He  pulled 
out  the  innocent  berretta.  "  A  disguise  ?  What 
do  honest  men  want  with  disguises  ?  Have  you 
any  papers  to  prove  that  what  you  say  is  true  ? " 

They  had  all  taken  out  sportsmen's  licenses 
before  leaving  Rome,  but,  unfortunately,  they 
had  mixed  the  papers  up.  Ricardo  Villegas 
loftily  presented  a  license  describing  J. 

"  How  is  this  ?  English  ?  five  foot  eleven  ?  fair 
complexion  ?  By  the  mass,  these  papers  are 
stolen  I     This   man  is  no   Inglese.     He  is   not 

140 


SCANNO 

above  five  feet  seven,  and  he  is  as  dark  as  a 
Moor.     In  the  name  of  the  King,  I  arrest  you." 

They  were  marched  off  to  Tivoli,  to  spend 
the  night  in  the  vast,  bare  guard-room,  where 
every  hour  the  grave  carabinieri  came  and 
went  in  squads,  as  the  guards  were  changed. 
In  the  morning  they  were  allowed  to  send  tele- 
grams to  their  respective  consuls  in  Rome,  and 
by  ten  o'clock  they  were  set  at  liberty,  with  a 
warning  to  be  more  careful  in  future. 

The  artists  suspected,  justly  or  unjustly,  that 
the  weather  had  much  to  do  with  their  arrest. 
It  was  a  miserable  evening,  when  three  possible 
brigands  in  the  hand  might  be  reckoned  as 
worth  more  than  a  whole  band  in  the  bush  1 


141 


vn 

VIAREGGIO  —  LUCCA  —  RETURN  TO  ROME 

ViAREGGio,  October  15,  1898. 

The  long  mole  runs  far  out  into  the  sea,  the 
hght-house  stands  at  the  extreme  end ;  here  we 
watch  the  fishing-boats  come  in  every  evening, 
the  sailors  poling  them  along  the  mole  to  their 
harborage  in  the  river.  They  build  boats  at 
Viareggio ;  the  real  interest  of  the  town,  quite 
apart  from  the  watering-place  life,  centres  in  the 
weatherbeaten  sailors,  the  cumbrous  craft  with 
their  rich  colored  sails,  the  smell  of  tar,  oakum, 
and  fish.  This  morning  we  watched  a  pair  of  old 
salts  calking  the  seams  of  a  dory  ;  they  had  a 
fire  and  a  pot  full  of  black  bubbling  stuff,  "pitch, 
pine,  and  turpentine."  It  is  late  in  the  season 
for  sea-bathing ;  this  morning  we  were  the  only 
people  who  braved  the  pleasant  cool  water. 
There  is  a  fine  beach  with  a  gradual  slope  and,  as 
far  as  I  have  discovered,  no  undertow.  Last  night 
we  walked  in  the  pineta,  the  wonderful  old  pine 
forest  that  embraces  Viareggio,  spreading  out  in  a 

142 


VIAREGGIO  — RETURN   TO   ROME 

half  circle,  sheltering  it  from  the  north  winds  and 
leaving  it  open  to  the  kindly  influences  of  the  sea. 

Viareggio  is  full  of  memories  of  Shelley;  we 
saw  the  place  where  his  body  was  washed  ashore, 
where  Trelawney  found  and  burned  it  in  the  old 
classic  fashion.  We  heard  the  question  discussed 
whether  the  yacht  Don  Juan  was  lost  by  accident 
(she  was  a  crank  boat)  or  had  been  run  down 
by  a  felucca,  whose  piratical  sailors  believed  Lord 
Byron  to  be  on  board  with  a  chest  of  treasure.  I 
suppose  we  shall  never  know  the  truth,  so  as  I 
am  loath  to  think  ill  of  any  sailor,  1  shall  go  on 
believing  it  was  an  accident. 

It  is  strange  to  find  ourselves  again  on  the 
high  road  of  travel,  after  the  loneliness  of  the 
Abruzzi.  Since  the  days  of  the  Phoenicians,  in- 
vading armies  of  Huns,  Goths,  Longbeards, 
palmers,  pilgrims,  and  their  descendants,  tourists 
and  tramps  have  patrolled  every  step  of  the  road 
we  are  now  travelling. 

We  drove  from  Viareggio  to  Lucca,  two  and 
a  half  hours,  through  the  beautiful  Tuscan  coun- 
try in  its  glowing  harvest  colors,  —  every  farm  a 
glory,  with  heaped  barrels  of  grapes  waiting  to  be 
trodden  into  wine,  strings  of  yellow,  yellow  Indian 
com  and  scarlet  peppers  hanging  over  the  fronts 

143 


ROMA  BEATA 

of  the  houses.  The  way  led  through  an  ohve 
grove :  all  about  us  were  twisty  witch  trees,  a  misty 
gray  wood  in  which  one  looked  right  and  left  for 
Merlin  and  Vivian.  Then  came  a  chestnut  for- 
est, the  great  bursting  burs  filled  with  big  shiny 
Italian  chestnuts.  We  stopped  at  the  house  of  a 
vine  grower  known  to  our  driver,  and  asked 
leave  to  visit  the  vineyard.  The  proprietor,  a 
tall  lean  man,  with  a  touch  of  the  faun  about  him 
(J.  wants  to  paint  him  as  the  god  Pan)  welcomed 
us  cordially.  The  large  Tuscan  speech  strikes 
sweetly  on  our  ears  after  the  clipped  Italian  of  the 
Abruzzi.  Even  the  working  people  in  Tuscany 
have  a  certain  elegance  in  turning  a  phrase  which 
southern  Italians  of  far  greater  culture  lack. 
Nothing  could  be  more  up  to  date  than  this 
Tuscan  vineyard,  almost  as  tidy  and  progressive 
as  the  German  vineyards.  That,  after  all,  is  the 
great  thing  about  travelling ;  you  visit .  not  only 
different  countries,  but  different  ages.  A  thou- 
sand years  lie  between  my  friend  "  Pitl^bourgo's  " 
Etruscan  method  of  ploughing,  at  Pietro  Anzieri, 
and  the  system  on  which  this  neat  thrifty  Tuscan 
vineyard  is  run. 

"Those  look  like  American  Isabella  grapes!" 
we  exclaimed. 

144 


VIAREGGIO  — RETURN  TO  ROME 

"  They  are  what  they  appear  to  be,"  said  the 
vignajuolo  ;  "  behold  an  experiment  I  Many  of 
my  best  vines  were  destroyed  by  the  phylloxera, 
an  obnoxious  insect  which  girdles  the  roots  so 
that  the  vines  die  I  Do  you  think  I  would  allow 
myself  to  be  vanquished  by  a  mere  insect?  I 
send  to  North  America  for  these  hardy  vines 
which  have  so  bitter  a  root  that  the  vile  insect 
touches  them  not.  I  graft  the  native  ItaUan 
grape  upon  the  American  vine  and  wait.  Mean- 
while, until  I  am  sure  of  my  grafting,  not  to  lose 
all  profit,  I  allow  the  American  vines  to  bear 
grapes  from  which  I  make  wine  of  some  sort.  I 
tell  you  in  confidence,  it  is  only  fit  for  contadini 
to  drink,  I  would  not  offend  you  by  offering 
it  to  you.  Ma^  pazienza !  by  and  by,  I  shall 
cut  back  the  vine  to  the  grafting,  and  the  native 
vine  will  flourish  upon  the  American  root  I 
Then  I  shall  have  a  wine  worthy  to  offer  vostra 
signoria  !  " 

Here  i*  progress  for  you ;  here  is  a  man  not 
satisfied  to  do  as  his  fathers  did  ;  here  is  a  country 
of  to-day,  a  people  with  a  future  I 

Having  made  the^Vo  of  the  vineyard,  we  came 
back  to  the  large  stuccoed  farmhouse  which  had 
originally  been  painted  a  violent  pink ;  now  the 

10  145 


ROMA  BEATA 

color,  softened  by  sun,  rain,  and  time,  is  a  rich 
variegated  yellow.  With  a  gracious  gesture,  our 
host  threw  open  the  door,  and  stood  smiling  in 
the  sun,  the  matchless  human  sunshine  of  Italy  in 
his  dark  shy  face.  When  he  talked  about  his 
vines  he  had  been  all  animation ;  the  ceremony 
of  inviting  a  lady  into  his  dwelling  was  rather 
irksome  to  him. 

"  The  signori  will  do  me  the  honor  of  entering 
my  poor  abode  ? "  He  showed  us  into  an  apart- 
ment only  a  shade  less  austere  than  the  waiting- 
room  of  a  convent.  It  was  clean,  cold,  and  of 
a  frightful  bareness.  Let  us  hope  there  was  an  en- 
chanting kitchen  —  like  our  never-to-be-forgotten 
kitchen  at  Roccaraso  —  somewhere  in  the  offing, 
where  our  handsome  Pan  might  take  his  ease. 

"The  signori  will  do  me  the  honor  to  try  a 
glass  of  my  wine?" 

J.  asked  if  he  had  any  wine  of  Chianti.  He 
laughed. 

"  Eccellenza^  shall  I  teU  you  the  truth  ?  I 
have  tuns  of  wine  which  I  shall  sell  for  Chianti. 
All  you  Jbrestieri  know  that  name  and  demand 
that  wine.  The  real  wine  of  Chianti  would  not 
supply  the  town  of  Lucca.  Chianti  is  a  small 
paese ;  its  wine  is  good,  who  shall  deny  it  ?  but 

146 


VIAREGGIO  — RETURN  TO  ROME 

not  so  good  as  that  which  you  will  honor  me 
by  trying ! " 

I  held  out  for  a  glass  of  the  "  Americano  " ; 
it  tastes  rather  like  the  unfermented  grape  juice 
we  havp  at  home. 

Lucca  at  last  I  a  dear,  queer,  delightful  old 
town  with  ramparts  and  fortifications  in  fine 
preservation.  It  has  a  delicious  slumberous 
quahty :  its  glorious  days  are  in  the  past ;  its 
mediaeval  walls  effectually  shut  out  the  rustle 
and  bustle  of  to-day.  My  earliest  childish  im- 
pressions concerning  Lucca  centre  about  certain 
long  thin  glass  bottles  bearing  the  words  "  Sub- 
lime Oil  of  Lucca,"  always  in  evidence  at  home 
when  there  was  to  be  a  dinner  party.  Cross  Ger- 
man Mary,  the  swarthy  culinary  goddess  of  our 
youth,  used  to  hold  one  of  those  deceitful  bottles 
gingerly  in  a  clawlike  hand,  letting  the  sublime 
liquid  trickle  drop  by  drop  into  the  yellow 
mixing-bowl  wherein  she  compounded  salad 
dressing  such  as  I  have  not  since  tasted.  Later 
in  life  I  was  once  delayed  by  a  crowd  on  State 
Street,  Chicago,  outside  a  wholesale  warehouse 
on  which  was  written  in  large  letters  "  Cotton 
Seed  Oil."     I  had  to  wait  for  a  moment  while 

147 


ROMA  BEATA 

a  crate  full  of  spick  and  span  new  empty  bottles 
with  fresh  gold  labels  bearing  the  familiar  legend 
"  Sublime  Oil  of  Lucca "  was  carried  into  the 
warehouse  !    Can  you  solve  me  that  mystery  ? 

During  our  first  dinner  in  Lucca,  I  inevitably 
demanded  "  un  poco  di  quest  'oUo  sublimo" 

"  JScco  lo  qua,  Signora  (behold  it  here,  lady)," 
said  the  fat  waiter,  offering  a  familiar  straw- 
covered  flask  of  oil,  just  like  those  we  have  in 
Rome.  Sublime  Oil  of  Lucca  in  long,  thin,  de- 
ceitful bottles  is  not  to  be  had  in  Lucca  I 

My  second  impression  of  the  town  is  con- 
nected with  another  cook,  the  excellent  Pompilia : 
she  was  born  here  and  first  went  out  to  service 
with  a  great  lady  who  lived  in  Florence  in  the 
winter,  and  at  Bagni  di  Lucca  in  the  summer. 
I  have  often  been  made  to  feel  my  inferiority  to 
that  lady,  and  enjoyed  a  certain  revenge  in  refus- 
ing to  drive  out  to  see  Bagni  di  Lucca,  whose 
fine  hotels  and  bath  establishment  do  not  tempt 
us.  We  prefer  Lucca  and  the  "Universe,"  a 
queer  old  caravansary,  whose  limitations  we  en- 
dure in  that  transcendental  spirit  with  which 
Margaret  Fuller  accepted  the  larger  universe. 
The  hotel  has  been  a  palace  of  some  importance  : 
our  bedroom  is  of  the  size  and  character  of  the 

148 


VIAREGGIO— RETURN   TO   ROME 

stage  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  when  set  for 
the  last  act  of  Othello.  The  gloomy  majesty 
of  the  furniture  is  quite  appalling;  the  two  stu- 
pendous beds  could  easily  accommodate  the 
whole  family  of  children  at  Orton  House. 

The  first  day  we  drove  out  into  the  neighboring 
country,  where  we  found  the  same  joyous  harvest 
atmosphere  we  left  in  the  Abruzzi.  The  town  of 
Lucca  is  mellow  with  another  harvest,  the  great 
art  harvest  of  the  renaissance ;  pictures  and 
marbles  that  strike  us  fi*esh  and  strong  from  the 
dead  hands  that  made  them,  not  too  familiar 
like  the  more  famous  works  of  Florence  and 
Venice.  We  never  before  knew  much  of  Matteo 
Civitalis,  the  statuary;  he  is  now  our  loving 
friend  for  life.  Fra  Bartolomeo,  the  Lucca 
painter,  we  already  knew,  though  not  so  inti- 
mately as  now.  We  have  put  in  some  days  of 
hard  sightseeing.  Did  I  say  hard?  no,  splendid, 
soul  inspiring.  I  feel  as  if  1  had  put  my  lips 
to  the  fountain  of  life,  and  drawn  deep  draughts 
of  inspiration.  There  are  great  churches,  grim 
St.  Romano  and  San  Michele,  the  cathedral 
with  its  precious  jewel,  the  tomb  of  Ilaria  del 
Carretto,  one  of  the  most  lovely  monuments  of 
the  renaissance.     As  we  lingered  near  the  tomb 

149 


ROMA  BEATA 

the  old  sacristan  approached;  he  eyed  us  anx- 
iously before  speaking. 

"The  signori  are  interested  in  sculpture?" 
We  said  that  we  were.  "  If  their  excellences 
have  time,  I  will  gladly  show  them  what  the 
church  contains  of  interest  to  the  amateur." 

How  often  he  must  have  been  snubbed  and 
hurried  by  breathless  tourists  I 

"A  thousand  thanks.  We  have  come  to 
Lucca  partly  to  see  the  cathedral  of  St.  Mar- 
tino ;  figure  to  yourself  if  we  have  time ! " 

The  withered  old  face  broke  up  into  the 
tenderest  smile ;  it  went  to  one's  heart  that  he 
should  offer  so  timidly  a  service  so  precious. 
We  spent  the  morning  mousing  about  the 
church  seeing  all  its  treasures  in  the  mellow 
glow  of  the  old  man's  enthusiasm. 

"  The  illustrious  ones  have  heard,  perhaps,  of 
a  certain  English  writer  who  calls  himself 
Ruskino?" 

We  said  that  we  knew  Ruskin's  books.  He 
flushed  with  pleasure.  "  He  was  my  friend ; 
more  than  thirty  times  he  visited  Lucca,  and 
he  never  came  without  making  a  sketch  of  the 
tomb  of  Ilaria." 

We  go  into  the  cathedral  every  day  to  look 

150 


VIAREGGIO— RETURN  TO  ROME 

at  Ilaria,  where  she  sleeps  in  marble  effigy, 
flower  crowned,  immortally  young  and  lovely, 
just  as  Jacopo  della  Quercia,  the  sculptor,  saw 
her,  nearly  five  centuries  ago.  The  tombs  of 
Lucca  remind  one  of  the  memorial  tablets  of 
the  Street  of  Tombs  in  Athens.  It  is  hard  to 
say  just  where  the  resemblance  lies ;  in  form  and 
manner  there  is  little  in  common,  the  resem- 
blance is  of  the  subtler,  deeper  sort ;  a  spiritual 
not  a  material  likeness  I 

Pauizzo  Rusncncci,  Rome,  October  16,  1898. 

We  found  our  dear  old  palace  very  much  as 
we  had  left  it,  save  that  Ignazio,  the  gardener, 
had  suddenly,  and  without  orders,  added  one 
hundred  pots  of  flowers  to  the  terrace.  The 
difficulty  and  fatigue  of  watering  this  hanging 
garden  of  Babylon  sometimes  seems  more  than 
J.  and  I  and  Pompilia,  our  horticultural  cook, 
can  manage.  Yet  I  cannot  regret  the  addition 
which  promises  many  new  delights.  —  chrysan- 
themums among  them.  Pompilia  asked  many 
questions  about  what  we  had  seen  in  our  wander- 
ings ;  she  cannot  forgive  us  for  not  having  driven 
out  to  Bagni  di  Lucca !  She  tells  me  that  she  too 
is  a  great  traveller. 

151 


ROMA  BEATA 

**  Sa,  Signora  mia,  ho  viaggiato  per  tutto  il 
mondo.  Da  Lucca  a  Firenze,  da  Firenze  a 
Lucca,  da  Lucca  a  Firenze,  e  poi  a  Roma ! 
Know,  mistress,  that  1  have  travelled  all  over  the 
world,  from  Lucca  to  Florence  "  (the  distance  is 
about  fifty  miles),  "from  Florence  to  Lucca,"  etc. 

Our  first  visitor  after  our  return  to  Rome  was 
Sora  GiuUa,  the  dark-eyed  Jewess  who  keeps 
an  antiquarian's  shop  in  the  Borgo  Nuovo,  a 
few  doors  away. 

"Welcome  home,  Signora.  I  have  brought 
you  a  few  occasioni  (bargains)  ;  a  piece  of  lace, 
well,  wait  till  you  see  it,  un  oggetto  unico!" 

Nena  took  Sora  Giulia's  baby  while  the  anti- 
quarian untied  her  green  damask  bundle  of  old 
lace  and  linen. 

"Behold,  Signora  mia,  this  priceless  flounce. 
How  well  it  would  become  you  on  a  vesture  of 
ceremony ! " 

She  spread  out  with  a  caressing  touch  a  deep 
lace  flounce  of  Milan  point.  It  was  indeed  "  an 
unique  object."  The  sacred  letters  IHS  and  all 
the  emblems  of  the  Passion  were  wrought  into  it 
with  wonderful  freedom  of  design,  —  the  ladder, 
the  cross,  the  mallet,  and  so  on.  It  had  evidently 
been  made  for  an  ecclesiastic. 

152 


VIAREGGIO  — RETURN  TO   ROME 

"  It  is  truly  a  splendid  piece  of  lace,  Sora 
Giulia,  but  is  it  not  known  to  you  that  such  a 
flounce  may  only  be  worn  by  a  sacerdotef' 

"  I  preti  sono  poveri!  " 

"  Not  all  priests  are  poor.  Show  it  to  Don 
Marcello." 

"  Ma  che  — ,  he  buys  no  longer,  he  has  to 
sell.  But  you,  Signora,  you  are  not  like  these 
others.  Eh  dica,  lei  e  veramente  Christiana  ? 
(Say,  are  you  really  a  Christian  ?) " 

Was  not  her  eagerness  not  to  have  me  a  Chris- 
tian pathetically  significant  ?  My  mother  remem- 
bers her  Hebrew  master,  a  scholarly  Jew,  taking 
hurried  farewells  of  her  in  order  to  get  back  to 
the  ghetto  before  the  gates  were  shut  at  eight  I 

"  1  cannot  buy  this  flounce.  I  could  not  wear 
it  if  I  did." 

**  Per  caritd,  then  look  at  this  reticellaJ" 
(Literally  "  small  net,"  a  coarse  white  netting 
with  designs  worked  in  by  hand.)  "The  for- 
estieri  are  mad  about  reticelle,  they  are  buying 
them  all  up  to  make  table-cloths  and  pillow 
covers.  Soon  it  will  be  impossible  to  find  them. 
I  never  saw  a  better  piece,  you  shall  have  it 
at  your  own  price.  In  confidence,  the  padrone 
di  casa  says  if  he  is  not  paid  his  rent  to-day  he 

153 


ROMA  BEATA 

will  turn  us  out.  What  a  bad  season  we  have 
had  !  No  travellers  since  June.  Those  Floren- 
tine antiquarians  put  lies  in  the  papers  about 
there  being  plague  or  cholera,  or  some  such 
porcheria  in  Rome,  just  to  keep  the  voyagers 
away  from  us.  We  make  nothing ;  but  we 
must  eat  and  pay  our  rent  all  the  same !  The 
padrone.  ..." 

"  With  respect,  he  is  an  infamous  beast,  they 
all  are.  Madonna  mia  !  "  Nena  broke  in.  When 
she  took  Sora  Giulia's  part  I  knew  that  the 
antiquarian  was  really  in  straits.  We  bought 
the  reticella  for  the  sum  due  the  landlord,  and 
Nena  went  downstairs  to  the  baker's  shop  to 
change  the  bill. 

"  Sora  Nena  will  tell  you  that  I  speak  the 
truth.  That  brute  of  a  padrone  extorted  her 
rent  yesterday,  took  her  last  centesimo.  What 
is  the  result?  I  tell  you,  this  morning  Nena's 
daughter  had  nothing  to  eat  for  her  breakfast 
but  one  raw  lemon.  In  consequence,  the  child 
at  the  breast  has  colic,  which  is  not  strange." 

"What  about  the  child's  father  ? " 

"  He  is  a  muratore  (mason),  but  he  gets  no 
work.  Sora  Nena  gives  him  to  eat  as  well  as 
his  wife." 

154 


VI AREGGIO  — RETURN   TO   ROME 

Nena  is  a  Venetian,  and  she  takes  snufF.  She 
has  other  faults  but  I  hear  oftenest  of  these  from 
the  other  servants.  Before  we  went  to  Roccaraso 
I  asked  her  if  she  had  ever  owned  a  silk  dress. 
She  laughed  at  the  question ;  "  silks  were  not 
for  the  likes  of  her,"  etc.  In  parting  I  gave  her 
a  cast-off  black  satin,  with  rather  peculiar  wide 
stripes.  The  first  Sunday  after  our  return 
Pompilia  went  to  mass  in  the  satin  dress,  and 
poor  pathetic  little  Nena  in  her  old  snufF-stained 
cotton  gown.  When  I  asked  an  explanation, 
she  said  that  she  had  sold  the  satin  to  the  cook: 
"  Pompiha  can  afford  to  wear  silk ;  I  ask  you, 
whom  has  she  in  the  world  belonging  to  her  ? 
Some  cousins,  who  send  her  a  basket  of  flowers 
on  her  festa !  She  puts  every  ,90/^0  she  can 
scrape  together  on  her  back.  Well,  let  that 
console  her  for  being  a  zitella  !  "  If  you  could 
have  heard  the  spiteful  hiss  of  her  zitella  (old 
maid).  Nena  has  a  daughter,  an  idle  son-in-law, 
and  seven  grandchildren  to  support,  but  she  pities 
Pompilia,  who  has  only  herself  to  think  of  ! 

**  When  the  forestieri  come,  you  will  recom- 
mend me  to  them  ? "  said  Sora  Giulia  in  parting. 
1  can  do  so  with  a  good  conscience.  If  she 
guarantees  a  candlestick  to  be  silver,  you  may 

155 


ROMA   BEATA 

be  sure  it  is  not  merely  plated.  If  a  bargain  is 
struck  she  will  keep  her  side  of  it ;  as  much  can- 
not be  said  of  all  her  Christian  confreres  among 
antiquarians. 

It  is  strange  how  the  antichita  mania  attacks 
people  in  Italy.  Every  one  we  know  collects 
some  manner  of  junk.  A  friend  of  J.'s  who  goes 
in  for  old  coins  was  driving  near  Girgente,  in 
Sicily,  through  the  wildest,  most  primitive  coun- 
try. A  peasant  digging  in  a  field  offered  him  a 
handful  of  coins,  moist  with  mud,  just  turned  up 
with  the  spade. 

They  were  all  ancient  Roman  coins,  copper  or 
silver,  familiar  and  not  particularly  valuable,  with 
the  exception  of  one  rare  Greek  goldpiece  which 
he  bought  for  a  large  price.  Afraid  of  being 
robbed,  he  took  the  next  boat  for  Naples,  pushed 
on  to  Rome,  where  he  had  been  passing  the 
winter,  showed  his  treasure  trove  to  an  expert, 
and  learned  that  there  were  but  three  others 
known  to  be  in  existence  :  one  in  Berlin,  another 
in  the  British  Museum,  a  third  in  a  private  col- 
lection. When  he  reached  London,  he  showed 
his  coin  to  the  gentleman  in  charge  of  the  col- 
lection at  the  British  Museum.  They  compared 
it  with  the  specimen  in  the  case.     The  Girgente 

156 


VIAREGGIO  — RETURN   TO  ROME 

coin  seemed  as  good  a  specimen  ;  as  a  last  test  it 
was  put  under  a  powerful  lens,*  which  showed  it 
to  be  a  brand  new  imitation  I 

The  Muse  of  Via  Gregoriana,  J.  C,  has  a 
catholic  taste  and  buys  all  manner  of  things  from 
empire  furniture  to  silver  lamps.  Her  last  craze 
is  for  peasant  jewelry.  She  "  acquires  "  —  one 
does  not  buy  antiquita  —  every  piece  she  can  lay 
her  hands  on.  Some  of  the  designs  are  excellent ; 
the  jewels  are  mostly  flat  rose  diamonds,  garnets, 
and  misshapen  pearls  set  in  silver.  Out  of  half 
a  dozen  odd  earrings  she  will  construct  you  a 
charming  ornament,  necklace,  pendant,  what  not, 
and  sell  it  to  you  at  a  small  profit,  which  she  de- 
votes to  helping  young  Roman  musicians,  several 
of  whom  owe  their  education  to  her.  I  call  that 
a  pleasant  combination,  to  make  your  hobby  carry 
your  charity. 

I  believe  Rome  is  the  best  place  in  Europe  to 
buy  jewels,  because  princes  as  well  as  peasants 
are  continually  throwing  them  on  the  market. 
One  day  our  jeweller,  Signor  Poce  (he  lives  in  a 
little  shop  in  the  Corso,  near  the  Piazza  del  Po- 
polo),  showed  us  a  set  of  the  finest  emeralds  I 
have  seen  in  years.  He  said  they  belonged  to 
some  great  lady  who  was  obliged  to  part  with 

157 


ROMA  BEATA 

them.  That  night  we  met  those  emeralds  at  a 
ball !  they  were  in  the  shop  again  the  next  morn- 
ing !  Don't  be  too  sorry  for  the  lady :  she  is  a 
sensible  English  woman  ;  and  we  happened  to 
hear  that  she  has  lately  redeemed  a  long-neglected 
estate  belonging  to  her  Roman  husband,  and  is 
putting  in  modem  improvements  in  the  way  of 
oil  and  wine  presses.  It  is  the  same  with  the 
poorer  people.  What  you  read  about  the  peas- 
ants parting  with  their  precious  possessions,  furni- 
ture, laces,  jewels,  is  true,  but  it  is  only  part  of 
the  truth  ;  they  are  selling  them  to  buy  better 
things  —  health  and  education  !  When  you  read 
about  the  heavy  taxes,  remember  what  they  pay 
fori  What  Italy  has  done  since  1870  is  as 
wonderful  as  what  France  did  in  paying  off  the 
war  debt  to  Germany  out  of  the  farmers'  stock- 
ings. Reading  and  writing  are  better  than  pearl 
earrings.  The  Tiber  embankment,  alone,  cost 
the  Romans  a  pretty  penny.  It  spoiled  the 
picturesqueness  of  the  river  —  the  sloping  banks 
covered  with  trees  and  flowers  must  have  been 
wonderful  —  and  it  did  away  with  the  Roman 
fever !  The  river  used  to  overflow  its  banks 
every  spring  and  to  flood  whole  districts  of  the 
city.     J.  remembers  boats  rowed  by  sailors  going 

158 


Tht  Tiber,  at  the  Ponle  Nomantana 
Wtom  m  pbotograpli 


VIAREGGIO  — RETURN  TO   ROME 

about  the  Piazza  Rotonda  arid  along  the  Via  di 
Ripetta,  carrying  bread  to  the  people  in  the  sub- 
merged houses.  When  the  river  receded, "  came 
the  famine,  came  the  fever."  When  I  was  in 
Rome  for  the  first  time,  as  a  girl,  I  had  a  bad  case 
of  old-fashioned  Roman  fever.  Since  my  return, 
I  have  seen  Suora  Gabriella,  the  dear  nun  who 
nursed  me  so  faithfully  (she  really  saved  my  life) 
through  that  long  dreadful  illness.  In  speaking 
of  the  character  of  the  work  done  by  the  nursing 
sisterhood  to  which  she  belongs,  she  said,  "  Since 
there  is  no  more  fever,  the  character  of  our  work  has 
changed  somewhat ;  we  now  take  surgical  cases  1 " 
The  doctors  and  hotel-keepers  claim  that  Rome 
is  the  second  healthiest  city  in  Europe,  having  the 
lowest  death  rate  after  London.  If  this  is  true, 
we  owe  it  to  Garibaldi,  for  he  it  was  who  urged 
the  Romans  to  build  the  Tiber  embankment,  — 
their  best  monument  to  his  memory. 

October  25,  189a 

This  morning,  Maria,  the  porter's  wife,  was 
announced.  She  had  come  on  "  ambasdata " 
from  the  wife  of  the  wine  merchant  opposite. 
"You  remember  the  poor  little  gobbetto  (hunch- 
back), Signora  ?  the  one  who  has  brought  you  so 

159 


ROMA    BEATA 

much  luck,  since  that  day  when  you  rubbed  his 
hump  ? " 

"  I  remember  him,  yes  ;  what  of  him  ? " 
"  He  is  very  ill ;  he  suffers  much,  cannot  sleep, 
cannot  eat.  One  sees  all  his  bones  !  His  mother, 
poor  woman,  prays  that  you  will  ask  the  Ameri- 
can Marchesa  who  lives  at  the  Palazzo  Giraud 
Torlonia  to  lend  her  carriage  for  the  transporta- 
tion of  the  santo  bambino  (the  holy  child)  from 
the  chm'ch  of  Santa  Maria  in  Aracieli,  to  her 
house." 

"But  why  does  she  want  the  santo  bambino 
at  her  house  ?  " 

"After  that  blessed  image  visits  his  bedside, 
the  poor  gobbetto  will  either  recover  or  find  re- 
pose in  death.  It  is  too  terrible  to  see  him 
suffer  ! " 

"  Is  this  thing  which  you  tell  me  true  ? " 
"  It  is  most  true,  as  you  will  see." 
I  knew  the  poor  crippled  child,  had  one  day 
taken  him  up  in  my  arms.     Maria,  seeing  me, 
had  supposed  1  knew  the  superstition  that  it  is 
lucky  to  touch  the  back  of  a  gobbo. 

"  Will  it  be  permitted  to  bring  the  bambino  to 
the  house  ? " 

"  If  a  carriage  can  be  sent  of  the  proper  style 
160 


VIAREGGIO  — RETURN  TO  ROME 

—  there  must  be  one  servant  on  the  box  and 
one  to  walk  beside,  there  must  be  two  horses  ; 
an  ordinary  hired  carriage  from  the  piazza  will 
not  do." 

"  If  the  Marchesa  consents  ? " 

"  The  bambinOy  attended  by  two  priests,  will 
be  brought  to  the  gobbettos  bedside.  Then  the 
thing  will  soon  be  over  for  the  poor  child  —  one 
way  or  the  other  !  " 

I  went  on  the  errand  to  my  neighbor,  Mrs. 
Haywood.  (The  Haywoods  having  a  title  from 
the  Vatican,  she  is  called  Marchesa  by  the  poor 
people  of  our  quarter,  but  among  her  American 
friends  she  remains  Mrs.  Hajrwood.)  She  is  a 
kind  woman  and  an  excellent  neighbor.  I  found 
her  at  home  in  that  splendid  old  Palazzo  Giraud, 
built  in  1503  (some  say  by  the  great  architect 
Bramante),  occupied  by  Cardinal  Wolsey  when 
he  was  papal  legate.  J.'s  studio,  by  the  way,  is 
in  one  wing  of  this  palace.  Mrs.  Haywood  gave 
me  tea  in  the  library,  one  of  the  finest  rooms  in 
Rome.  It  has  a  balcony  running  around  it, 
filled  with  rare  books  and  manuscripts,  for  Mr. 
Haywood  is  a  great  bibliophile. 

I  told  her  my  " avibasdata''  Though  she  was 
kindly  sympathetic,  she  said  "  no "  firmly,  then 
11  161 


ROMA   BEATA 

explained.  The  Haywoods  are  the  only  people 
in  the  Borgo  (outside  the  Vatican)  who  keep  a 
carriage.  When  they  first  came  to  live  here, 
they  began  by  lending  it  whenever  it  was  asked 
for,  to  bring  the  santo  bambino  to  the  sick. 
They  soon  found  that,  if  they  ever  wished  to  use 
their  carriage  themselves,  they  must  make  a  hard 
and  fast  rule  to  refuse  all  such  requests.  Know- 
ing this,  Maria  and  the  gobbettd's  mother  induced 
me  to  make  the  petition,  on  the  chance  that  the 
Marchesa  might  grant  to  a  compatriot  what  she 
would  deny  them.  When  it  was  found  that  my 
mission  had  failed,  Maria,  of  the.  kind  heart, 
opened  a  subscription  to  pay  for  the  hire  of  a 
suitable  carriage.  Every  member  of  our  house- 
hold, including  Nena,  has  contributed  to  the 
fund.  "  Bisogna  vivere  a  Roma  coi  costumi  di 
Roma,''  says  the  Italian  proverb,  "  When  you 
are  in  Rome  do  as  Rome  does  I " 


m 


VIII 

ROMAN   CODGERS   AND  SOLITARIES 

Palazzo  Rusncucci,  November  28,  1898. 

To-day  being  the  last  Saturday  in  the  month, 
Fra  Antonio,  the  begging  friar,  called  for  his 
obolo.  I  surprised  him  in  the  act  of  offering  a 
shabby  horn  snufF-box  to  Filomena.  She  had 
taken  a  pinch  daintily  between  a  finger  and 
thumb,  and  was  folding  it  in  a  sheet  of  my  best 
Irish  linen  note  paper. 

"  Una  presa  di  tabaco  per  Sora  Nena  (A 
pinch  of  snuff  for  Mrs.  Nena),"  shfe  explained. 
Poor  Nena,  little  withered  old  woman,  the  ser- 
vants' drudge,  it  does  n't  matter  about  Jie?'  habits  I 
Filomena,  eighteen,  rosy  as  Aurora,  —  so  pretty 
that  young  men  make  excuses  to  call  at  our  old 
green  door  to  see  her  open  it,  —  feared  the  shadow 
of  suspicion  that  the  snuff  was  for  her  own  use  ! 
Snuff  is  still  taken  in  Italy  by  the  old  and  the 
old  fashioned :  it  has  the  sanction  of  the  clergy. 
In  Rome,  it  is  thought  hardly  seemly  for  a 
priest  to  smoke,  they  nearly  all  use  snuff ;  indeed 

163 


ROMA  BEATA 

I  have  seen  a  prie'st  take  a  sly  pinch  while  offici- 
ating at  the  altar.  SnufF  is  the  only  luxury  our 
monk  Antonio  knows.  Do  you  blame  J.  for  some- 
times keeping  back  a  little  of  the  money  which 
we  ought  to  give  the  f rate  for  the  general  fund 
of  the  brotherhood,  and  investing  it  in  a  packet 
of  snufF  for  the  old  fellow's  particular  comfort  ? 
I  do  not. 

"  FrateJ'  I  said,  "  why  did  you  become  a 
monk?" 

"  Signora,  the  Madonna  herself  bade  me  take 
the  vows." 

"  You  lead  a  happy  life  at  the  monastery  ? " 

"  Like  others  I  have  my  troubles,  mainly 
rheumatism."  (His  poor  old  veined  feet  looked 
cold  in  their  sandals.) 

"  About  those  vows,  now,  how  many  are 
there  ? " 

"  They  are  three,"  he  counted  them  off  on  the 
knots  of  his  rope  girdle,  "poverty,  obedience, 
chastity.  Circumstances  might  conceivably  re- 
lease me  from  the  first  and  the  second,  but 
beheve  me,  Signora,"  he  fixed  an  earnest,  rheumy 
eye  upon  me  as  he  said  it,  "  not  even  the  Holy 
Father  himself  could  absolve  me  from  the  third 
vow." 

164 


ROMAN  CODGERS  AND   SOLITARIES 

*^  SHntende  (One  understands),"  Filomena 
assented. 

J.  says  we  women  folk  all  make  a  great  fuss 
over  the  frate ;  during  the  time  old  Santi  (for- 
merly the  valet  of  Crawford  pere,  ever  since 
more  or  less  dependent  on  the  family)  was  with 
us  the  frate  was  rather  snubbed.  Santi,  for 
many  years  the  majordomo  of  a  rich  monsignore, 
scorned  our  dear  Fra  Antonio.  He  always 
forgot  to  serve  the  modest  gift  the  old  monk 
brought  us  every  month,  a  head  of  barba  di  cap- 
pucini  (capuchin's  beard)  a  sort  of  curly  lettuce 
the  monks  raise  in  their  garden.  Santi  was  a 
character  for  you  :  he  had  an  unctuous  ecclesi- 
astical manner  suggestive  of  sacerdotal  ceremo- 
nial. When  he  passed  a  plate  of  steaming 
Jettucciejatf  in  casa  (ribbons  made  in  the  house, 
home-made  macaroni)  one  was  reminded  of  an 
acolyte  handling  a  smoking  censer.  He  was 
not  with  us  long ;  though  he  was  as  handsome 
as  a  king,  with  the  most  distinguished  manners, 
we  were  relieved  to  be  rid  of  him  ;  he  who  had 
served  cardinals  and  princes  of  the  Church 
seemed  out  of  place  waiting  on  our  small 
table.  I  have  recognized  Santi 's  sacerdotal 
manner  in  Cardinal  Rampolla's  servants  and  in 

165 


ROMA  BEATA 

the  attendants  of  other  churchmen  we  have 
visited. 

Cardinal  Rampolla  Hves  over  there  at  the 
Vatican.  The  day  we  called  on  him  we  merely 
had  to  walk  across  the  Square  of  St.  Peter 
and  knock  at  his  door,  as  it  were  !  We  were 
astonished  at  being  taken  up  to  his  apartment 
in  an  elevator  —  an  elevator  at  the  Vatican 
seems  an  anachronism !  Living  not  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  Vatican  we  are  strangely  aware 
of  the  mighty  heart  of  the  Cathohc  Church,  and 
have  grown  sensitive  to  its  pulsations,  whether 
stirred  by  events  at  the  Philippines  or  in  the 
New  York  elections  I  Cardinal  Rampolla  is  in 
constant  attendance  upon  the  Pope.  A  friend 
of  ours  once  invited  him  to  his  villa  outside 
Rome. 

"  It  would  rest  your  Eminence  to  get  away 
for  a  few  hours ! "  he  urged. 

"  Aime,  magari  potessi  (If  I  only  could)  !  " 
sighed  the  cardinal.  Our  friend  says  the  sigh 
and  look  showed  a  depth  of  weariness  he  had 
never  suspected  in  the  dark  energetic  man  at  the 
helm.  They  say  the  cardinal  has  only  slept 
outside  the  Vatican  once  since  the  day  the  Pope 
appointed    him   secretary  of    state  years   ago  I 

166 


ROMAN   CODGERS  AND   SOLITARIES 

That  was  on  the  night  of  his  mother's  death  ;  the 
next  day  he  came  back  to  the  cold  palace  with  its 
hundreds  of  rooms  inhabited  by  four  thousand 
men  and  not  one  woman  or  child.  I  often 
wonder  about  the  dusting  of  those  endless  halls, 
chapels,  and  suites  of  apartments  ! 

Do  you  suppose  that  vast  hive  of  celibates  is 
the  magnet  that  draws  to  Rome  its  hoards  of 
codgers  and  solitaries  ?  I  assure  you  their  habits 
may  be  studied  better  here  than  anywhere  in  the 
world.  Though  many  of  the  Roman  codgers 
are  more  or  less  connected  with  the  Vatican, 
there  are  scores  who  have  no  relations  with 
it,  Protestants,  Greek  Orthodox,  Hebrews,  and 
the  like. 

Rome  must  have  been  more  picturesque  when 
the  Pope  took  his  airing  on  the  Pincio,  instead  of 
walking  and  driving  inside  the  walls  of  the 
Vatican  garden,  as  he  does  now.  In  those  days 
the  whole  populace  went  down  on  their  knees 
whenever  he  appeared.  Then  the  cardinals  wore 
their  splendid  vermilion  robes  every  day :  they 
must  have  made  a  joyful  note  of  color  in  the 
landscape  I  Now  they  wear  sad  black  gowns, 
save  at  a  festa  or  some  special  function.  Driv- 
ing out  into  the  Campagna  on  a  fine  afternoon, 

167 


ROMA  BEATA 

one  is  almost  sure  to  pass  a  sober,  closed  carriage 
drawn  by  a  pair  of  fat  black  horses,  waiting  by 
the  roadside ;  a  little  farther  on,  one  meets 
some  cardinal  walking  with  his  secretary.  It 
is  not  etiquette  for  a  cardinal  to  walk  in  the 
streets  of  Rome  while  their  head  remains  the 
Prisoner  of  the  Vatican  ;  they  must  drive  about 
to  do  their  errands,  and  get  their  airing  outside 
the  walls.  Isn't  that  fascinating?  But  in 
society  the  cardinals  often  wear  their  pretty 
bright  robes. 

At  the  Haywoods'  the  other  day,  a  cardinal 
came  to  tea  ;  our  host  and  hostess  met  him  at 
the  entrance,  each  carrying  a  lighted  waxen 
torch.  All  the  guests  (except  heretics  like  our- 
selves) courtesied,  kotowed,  and  kissed  his  ring. 
It  is  not  etiquette  for  a  lady  to  be  decolletee 
when  a  churchman  is  to  be  of  the  party.  It  is 
just  these  endless  traditions — "links  with  the 
past  "  —  which  make  Roman  society  to  us  shad- 
owless-moneyed-above-board  republicans  so  ab- 
sorbingly interesting  !  Social  life  here  is  rich 
in  shadows  and  lights,  fuU  of  color  and  imagina- 
tion ;  no  wonder  the  novelists  never  tire  of  using 
it  for  a  background. 

Cardinal  Hohenlohe,  a  true  prince  of  the 
168 


ROMAN  CODGERS  AND   SOLITARIES 

Church,  keeps  high  state  in'  the  historic  Villa 
d'Este,  among  his  wonderful  cypresses,  fountains, 
terraces,  and  frescoed  casinos.  He  surrounds 
himself  with  artists  and  musicians,  pays  little 
heed  to  any  gentle  hint  from  the  Vatican,  and  is 
one  of  the  most  interesting  persons  one  can  see : 
his  independence  —  he  is  said  to  be  a  Rosminian — 
is  due  to  his  position  as  well  as  to  his  character ; 
he  is  of  the  Prussian  royal  family,  cousin  to  the 
Emperor  William,  and  is  possessed  of  a  free  and 
liberal  spirit  not  easy  to  control.  The  Hohen- 
lohes  are  older  than  the  Hohenzollerns,  and  a 
friend  of  the  cardinal's  once  said  to  a  friend  of 
mine,  that  his  Eminence  in  a  moment  of  wrath, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  cried  out :  "  Ugh  I 
Hohenzollern  I  They  once  were  considered 
highly  honored  with  the  post  of  holding  the 
stirrup  for  the  head  of  my  house."  Was  not 
that  nice  and  spiteful? 

The  cardinal's  banishment  from  Tivoli  was 
extremely  diverting.  Two  English  noblewomen 
of  high  rank,  in  Rome  for  the  winter,  wished  to 
meet  all  the  distinguished  personages  possible. 
A  dinner  was  arranged  for  them  by  Baron  Blanc, 
to  which  Cardinal  Hohenlohe  was  invited.  After 
all  the  other  guests  had  assembled,  the  company 

169 


ROMA   BEATA 

was  thrown  into  a  flutter  by  the  arrival  of  Crispi. 
Instead  of  Hohenlohe's  withdrawing  (the  usual 
etiquette  when  exalted  Black  and  White  person- 
ages meet  by  chance  in  society)  they  all  went 
merrily  in  to  dinner  together.  There  were  no  end 
of  toasts,  Prince  and  Patriot  pledged  each  other 
in  Baron  Blanc's  best  wine.  Mr.  Stillman,  who 
was  of  the  company,  remarked  that  it  was  pleas- 
ant to  see  Eminences  and  "  Eccellenzas  "  drinking 
each  other's  health.  A  neighbor  at  table  whis- 
pered to  the  dauntless  Stillman,  "  How  imprudent 
you  are  ! "    (x\s  if  he  was  ever  anything  else  ! ) 

Other  people  were  proved  to  have  been  im- 
prudent. The  next  day  the  great  prince  cardi- 
nal was  summoned  to  an  interview  with  the  Pope. 
What  passed  between  them  gossip  does  not  say, 
but  the  cardinal  packed  his  bag  and  left  that 
afternoon  for  Perugia,  where  he  passed  three 
months  in  exile.  Another  imprudence  of  the 
cardinal's  was  his  lending  the  Villa  d'Este  for  a 
political  meeting  in  the  campaign  of  Guido 
BacceUi  (son  of  the  famous  physician)  who  was 
at  that  time  running  for  parliament.  The  story 
of  the  poisoned  figs  used  by  Zola  in  his  novel 
"Rome"  was  founded  on  a  sad  incident  at  the  Villa 
d'Este.     Some  poisoned    food    meant    for    the 

170 


ROMAN   CODGERS  AND   SOLITARIES 

cardinal  was  eaten  by  his  steward,  who  died,  I 
have  been  told,  before  his  very  eyes,  * 

Codgers,  both  clerical  and  lay,  are  usually  shy ; 
you  must  not  let  them  know  they  are  under  ob- 
servation if  you  hope  to  learn  anything  of  their 
habits.  In  spite  of  this,  they  are  distinctly  social 
and  gregarious,  while  the  solitary  lives  and  often 
dies  alone.  I  asked  one  old  gentleman  codger — 
an  American  —  who  often  drops  in  on  his  way  to 
his  browsing  ground,  the  Vatican  Library  —  what 
road  first  led  him  to  Rome. 

"  The  via  vegetaria"  he  said  ;  "  Rome  has  the 
finest  vegetable  market  in  the  world."  He  may 
be  right,  I  certainly  know  no  city  where  vegeta- 
bles are  so  cheap,  various,  and  good,  but  it  seemed 
an  odd  reason  for  settling  here. 

"  Artichokes,"  he  went  on,  "  are  no  dearer  than 
potatoes  ;  as  to  finocchio,  it  is  cheaper  than  bread." 

"  Why  could  we  not  raise  Jinocchio  at  home  ? " 
I  asked. 

"  Wait  till  we  grow  poor  and  thrifty,"  he  said, 
"  till  we  drink  sheep's  milk,  eat  capretto  (kid)  and 

1  Cardinal  Hohenlohe,  since  dead,  left  what  remained  of  his  fortune 
to  the  son  of  the  man  who  in  this  way  was  the  means  of  saving  his 
Ufe.  At  the  sale  of  the  cardinal's  effects  Monsignor  O'Connell,  of  the 
American  College,  bought  the  grand  piano  on  which  Liszt  has  so  often 
played. 

171 


ROMA  BEATA 

miscellaneous  fungi ;  then  we  shall  find  the  way 
to  turn  wild  American  fennel  into  domestic 
Italian  finocclii. " 

Finocchi  is  a  root  something  like  celery ;  it 
has  the  same  crisp  crunchiness,  though  it  tastes 
rather  hke  aniseed;  the  Romans  eat  it  raw,  we 
prefer  it  braised  and  served  with  black  butter. 
Why  not  try  to  raise  it  in  your  garden  ?  If  you 
succeed  in  introducing  a  new  vegetable,  you  will 
acquire  merit  in  the  eyes  of  every  dinner-ordering 
wretch  in  the  land.  Fennel  and  kid.  Two  new 
dishes  !  There  is  a  chance  for  you  to  reach  every 
heart  between  Maine  and  Alaska  ! 

Poor  old  Mr.  X died  the  other  day ;  I  shall 

miss  him  dreadfully.  He  was  the  only  snob  va- 
riety of  the  genus  codger  in  Rome  ;  they  are  rare 
anywhere,  the  codger's  social  aspect  being  gener- 
ally mild  and  mildewed.  I  once  asked  him  what 
had  brought  him  to  Rome  (he  came  here  twenty- 
five  years  ago  with  two  marriageable  daughters). 

"  The  fact  that  it  is  respectable  to  be  idle  here, 
and  that  one  finds  the  best  society."  He  said 
"  the  best  society  "  in  the  sort  of  voice  with  which 
raw  and  crude  converts  mention  the  Madonna 
or  one  of  what  the  Romans  call  i  soliti  santi  (the 
same  old  saints).     His  daughter  —  she  married 

172 


ROMAN  CODGERS  AND   SOLITARIES 

Prince  Q ,  is  a  particularly  nice  woman ;  the 

comfort  the  old  gentleman  took  in  his  grand- 
children's titles  was  pleasing  to  behold.  At  fifty 
he  sat  solidly  down  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of 
**  good  society,"  and  the  occupation  of  collecting 
engraved  gems.  That  old  law  of  compensation, 
you  know,  which  makes  some  men  after  an  idle 
youth  leap  with  fiery  ardor  to  embrace  hard  work, 
was  reversed  for  him.  Having  grubbed  all  his 
youth  he  had  the  luck  (it  is  rare)  to  find  out  how 
much  fun  there  may  be  in  play,  after  all ! 

I  went  to  see  the  Princess  Q soon  after  the 

old  gentleman's  death.  She  told  me  something  of 
his  last  days.  "  The  night  before  my  father  died 
he  made  me  promise  for  the  twentieth  time  that 
I  would  send  his  body  home.  I  asked  him  why 
he  was  so  set  on  the  idea.  He  rose  right  up  in 
bed  and  said  in  a  loud  voice,  *  I  can't  bear  to 
think  that  on  the  last  day  I  might  rise  from  the 
dead  along  with  these  damned  Italians  I ' " 

Was  n't  that  a  death-bed  revelation  for  you  ? 
The  old  man  had  been  a  New  York  newsboy, 
had  gone  West,  made  his  pile  in  rum  ;  then  sunk 
the  shop  for  good  and  all.  He  never  talked 
about  his  early  life,  or  where  he  came  from ;  he 
bragged  of  his  daughter's  fine  acquaintances,  of 

173 


ROMA  BEATA 

his  son-in-law's  manners  —  but  when  his  hour 
was  come,  he  wished  to  he  in  the  consecrated 
ground  of  his  native  land! 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  only  visit  I  ever  re- 
ceived from  the  prince  of  solitaries,  poor  old  Galli, 
the  mad  painter.  He  came  in  with  his  dauntless, 
threadbare  air,  made  a  sweeping  bow,  and  paid 
me  an  elaborate  compliment.  His  business, 
however,  was  plainly  not  Avith  me. 

"  I  have  come,  Signorino  Jacca,  to  ask  the 
favor  of  a  few  old  clothes." 

He  said  it  in  such  a  spirited  fashion  that  we 
felt  the  favor  was  conferred  rather  than  asked. 
I  wish  I  could  make  you  see  Galli !  He  has 
the  hall  mark  of  genius  stamped  upon  him. 
Eyes  like  live  coals,  hair  —  when  J.  first  remem- 
bers him  blue-gray,  now  a  rich  silver  —  worn 
long,  growing  in  masses  with  big  waves,  like  the 
head  of  Zeus  at  the  Vatican.  He  tries  in  every 
way  to  keep  up  the  pace  of  his  youth ;  instead 
of  walking  he  shambles  along  at  a  funny  bear's 
trot;  "having  less  time  than  I  once  had,"  he 
said  to  J.,  "I  cannot  afford  to  walk  slowly  hke 
some  people  of  my  age,  so  I  am  obliged  to  run." 

Galli  is  a  Milanese,  a  descendant  of  those 
blond  barbarians  from  the   North,  the  Lunghe 

174 


ROMAN   CODGERS  AND  SOLITARIES 

Barbe.  There  is  something  ardent  and  free 
about  him,  a  starriness  of  the  eyes,  a  breezy,  un- 
trammelled quality  of  mind  which  suggests  some 
far-off  Teutonic  ancestor.  Among  the  dead 
level  of  the  people  one  meets,  GaUi  stands  out  a 
marked  man.  As  to  the  madness  —  was  Lud- 
wig  of  Bavaria  really  mad,  or  a  poet  born  in  the 
wrong  place  ?  Mad  or  sane,  Galli  is  interesting ; 
once  you  recognize  that  a  man  cannot  be  both 
ordinary  and  extraordinary,  cannot  possess  com- 
mon sense  and  uncommon  sense,  the  vagaries  of 
genius  cease  to  annoy  ! 

Whenever  I  hear  the  artists  talking  of  Galli,  I 
listen  and  try  to  remember  what  they  say :  some 
day  his  history  must  be  written ;  the  material 
will  be  found  in  the  memories  of  people  who 
knew  him,  not  "  in  the  files  " ;  he  is  not  one  the 
journalists  delight  to  honor. 

No  one  seems  to  know  Galli's  age.  He  might 
have  been  bom  in  1819  —  so  many  remarkable 
people  were  bom  that  year  that  I  often  wonder 
if  there  is  not  something  in  astrology,  after  all. 
When  he  was  young,  Galli  went  to  England 
with  good  letters  of  introduction.  He  was  soon 
spoken  of  as  a  painter  "  with  the  right  stuff  in 
him  —  imagination,  ideality,  the  artistic  tempera- 

175 


ROMA  BEATA 

ment,"  all  the  rest  of  it.  As  he  was  a  well-bred 
man,  he  had  a  social  as  well  as  an  artistic  success, 
and  became  a  fashionable  portrait  painter.  He 
played  his  little  part  in  the  fascinating  drama  of 
the  London  life  of  his  day.  It  must  have  been 
a  wonderful  time,  when  all  that  was  best  in  the 
English  race  came  to  the  surface.  Sympathy 
for  Italy  was  at  its  height,  the  great  scheme  for 
the  unification  was  gi'owing  silently  and  strongly. 
England,  the  mighty  ally,  was  helping  Italy  pre- 
pare for  the  struggle.  Looking  back  at  the 
England  of  that  day,  one  seems  to  see  a  whole 
army  of  Raleighs  spreading  their  cloaks  before 
the  feet  of  the  young  Queen  Victoria.  All 
England  seems  to  have  shared  in  the  youth,  the 
hope,  the  courage  of  the  Queen.  With  Galli, 
the  romantic  Italian,  the  universal  enthusiasm 
became  personal ;  he  fell  in  love,  not  with 
the  sovereign,  but  with  the  woman,  which  makes 
all  the  difference. 

He  began  to  neglect  his  work,  to  spend  all 
his  time  and  money  in  hansom  cabs,  pursuing 
her  whenever  she  went  abroad.  The  police  in- 
vestigated his  case,  found  him  to  be  harmless 
and  respectable,  were  content  to  keep  an  eye 
upon  him,  until  that  day  when  he  tried  to  drive 

176  '— 


ROMAN   CODGERS  AND   SOLITARIES 

up  to  the  private  entrance  of  Buckingham 
Palace  where  the  Queen  was  living.  That  was 
going  too  far  even  for  the  patience  of  Scotland 
Yard.  Galli  was  arrested  and  given  twenty-four 
hours  to  get  out  of  England  or  into  Bedlam. 
He  left  for  the  continent  the  same  day,  came  to 
Rome,  hired  for  his  studio  an  old  building,  once 
the  orange  house  of  the  Palazzo  Borghese.  It  is 
built  under  a  cliff,  from  the  top  of  which  ivy  and 
madre  selva  (mother  of  the  wood  —  we  call  it 
clematis)  hang  over  in  trailing  masses.  One  day 
a  large  snail  from  the  ivy  crawled  through  a 
broken  pane  of  the  window  to  the  studio  wall, 
down  the  wall,  and  up  again,  leaving  a  damp, 
slimy  track  which  formed  something  like  the 
letter  V.  A  friend  coming  in  surprised  Galli 
standing  staring  at  the  wall  with  open  mouth 
and  eyes. 

"  Why,  man,  what  are  you  looking  at  ? " 

"At  the  letter." 

"  What  letter  ?  " 

"  The  royal  letter  V." 

"  What  an  odd  chance  !  " 

"  You   call   it  chance  "  —  he   smiled   mysteri- 
ously. 

"  What  do  you  call  it  ? " 
12  177 


ROMA  BEATA 

"  It  is  the  sign." 

"  Che  pazzia  ( What  madness)  I  what  do  you 
beheve  that  Httle  animal  to  be  ? " 

"  I  believe  what  I  believe,  aviico  mio.  The 
eyes  of  affection  see  what  other  eyes  cannot  see. 
It  is  a  miracle,  if  you  will,  not  more  wonderful 
than  others.  The  spirit  of  my  august  lady,  the 
sovereign  of  England,  has  taken  the  shape  of 
quella  lumaca  benedetta  (that  blessed  snail) ! " 

Galli  tamed  the  royal  snail,  kept  it  in  cotton 
wool  and  rose-leaves,  fed  it  on  tender  green  leaves 
till  it  diedj  —  when  he  forgot  the  whole  matter. 

Soon  after  J.  came  to  Rome  as  an  art  student 
Galli  was  "  discovered  "  by  some  of  the  Spanish 
artists,  then  the  most  powerful  group  of  painters 
in  Rome.  For  the  moment  Galli's  only  home 
was  a  large  tree  outside  the  Porta  Salaria.  Some 
boards  laid  between  the  branches  made  his  bed ; 
he  shared  the  tree  with  a  flock  of  friendly  tur- 
keys. He  had  been  fairly  comfortable  through 
the  summer  and  autumn ;  with  December  came 
the  fierce  tramontana,  blowing  away  the  leafy 
walls  of  his  house.  The  artists  —  they  are  the 
most  charitable  people  in  the  world  —  clubbed 
together,  hired  a  room  for  Galli  in  the  Via  Fla- 
minia  —  fancy  the  real  old  Flaminian  way  —  and 
-  178 


ROMAN   CODGERS  AND   SOLITARIES 

fitted  it  up  nicely  as  a  bedroom  and  studio. 
One  bitter  winter  evening  J.  and  Villegas  — 
they  also  had  studios  in  the  Via  Flaminia  — 
on  their  way  home  chanced  to  look  up  at  his 
window.  Outside  on  an  iron  balcony  stood  GalH, 
with  nothing  on  but  a  thin  cotton  nightshirt. 

"  In  the  name  of  Bacchus,  what  are  you  do- 
ing ? "  roared  the  great  Villegas,  who  had  borne  a 
large  share  of  the  expense  of  rescuing  Galli  from 
the  turkey  roost.  Galli  nodded,  and  smiled 
down  upon  them. 

"  Ombre  vivo,''  cried  the  fiery  Spaniard,  "  go  in, 
or  you  will  take  your  death."  Galli  only  smiled 
the  more  and  shook  his  head.  The  two  below 
rushed  upstairs  and  dragged  him  indoors. 

" Don't  disturb  yourselves,  amid  mid" Gafli 
explained,  "  my  room,  as  you  perceive,  is  cold, 
my  bed  has  no  blankets  ;  I  find  if  I  stand  out  on 
the  balcony  in  my  shirt  for  a  few  moments,  my 
room  seems  warm  afterwards  by  comparison." 

Not  long  after  this,  Galli  came  up  to  J.'s  table 
one  night  at  the  Cafe  Greco  (the  haunt  of  ar- 
tists). "  Caro  Signorino  Jacca,  you  see  many 
Americani ;  they  are  all  immensely  rich,  as  is 
known  to  you.  For  charity's  sake,  sell  a  picture 
of  mine  to  one  of  them." 

179 


ROMA  BEATA 

The  hint  was  taken,  a  charming  picture  of 
Galli's  was  unearthed  (a  small  Madonna) ;  the 
purchaser,  an  American  girl,  found.  The  day 
after  the  sale  J.  went  to  t^e  Cafe  Greco,  where 
he  knew  he  should  find  Galli,  and  with  the  inex- 
perience of  youth  handed  him  the  price  of  the 
picture,  one  hundred  and  fifty  francs.  If  ever  a 
poor  painter-man  needed  one  hundred  and  fifty 
fi:ancs,  J.  says  that  it  was  GaUi  at  that  moment. 
His  boots  were  so  broken  that  as  he  walked  his 
toes  came  in  view  between  the  uppers  and  the 
lowers  with  every  step  ;  his  trousers  were  deeply 
fringed  about  the  ankle ;  his  shirt  was  without  a 
collar,  he  wore  his  inevitable  long  overcoat  — 
buttoned  up  to  conceal  what  was  not  under  it  — 
and  a  shabby  silk  hat ;  whatever  his  fortunes  he 
was  never  seen  in  any  but  a  top  hat ;  J.  thinks  it 
was  the  last  trace  of  the  coxcombry  of  his  Lon- 
don youth. 

"  Ecco  il  denaro  (Here  is  the  money) ! "  said  J. 
Galli  took  it  with  a  gay,  swaggering  air  : 

"  Crrazie  tante  sai  ?  Ci  vedremo,  caro  Jacca 
(So  many  thanks,  till  we  meet  again).  "  With  that 
he  plunged  across  the  street  to  the  shop  of  the 
King's  hatter  opposite  in  the  Corso,  where  he 
bought  a  silk  hat  of  the  latest  English  model. 

180 


ROMAN  CODGERS  AND   SOLITARIES 

He  next  trotted  up  to  the  Pia'zza  di  Spagna,  got 
into  the  first  cab  on  the  stand,  and  engaged  all 
the  other  cabbies  to  follow  him  :  "  Drive  to  the 
tomba  di  Nerone  ;  you  others,  do  me  the  favor 
to  follow." 

The  tomba  di  Nerone  is  a  ruin  outside  the 
walls  of  Rome  which  the  ai'cheeologists  say  has 
nothing  to  do  with  Nero  and  never  was  a  tomb. 
After  they  had  gone  a  short  distance  Galli  cried, 
"  Halt."  The  procession  stopped  short,  Galli 
got  out. 

"  What  has  happened,  padrone  mio  ?  "  asked 
the  cabman. 

"  Nothing  at  all ;  you  may  now  take  your  place 
at  the  end  of  the  cue  I  "  He  dismissed  the  man 
with  a  wave  of  the  hand  and  got  into  the  second 
cab.  Riding  in  this  progressive  fashion,  by  the 
time  they  reached  the  tomba  di  Nerone^  Galli 
had  ridden  by  turn  in  all  the  carriages. 

"  With  your  help,  my  friends,"  he  said  to  the 
cabbies,  "  I  will  climb  to  the  top  of  the  tomb  ; " 
two  of  them  boosted  him  up.  "  If  you  will  listen, 
I  will  tell  you  some  things  about  the  great  Nero 
you  never  heard  before.  He  was,  after  all,  an 
artist ;  the  historians  have  been  too  hard  upon 
him,  as  we  artists  ought  not  to  forget." 

181 


ROMA  BEATA 

Perhaps  Galli's  long  speech  glorifying  Nero 
set  the  present  fashion  for  the  whitewashing  of 
Cgesars  generally  I  The  cabmen  squatted  round 
on  their  hunkers,  smoked  their  pipes  and  listened, 
for  the  enlightenment  of  future  fo?'estieri — till 
Galli  scrambled  down  from  the  rostrum,  and 
jumped  into  the  first  cab,  crying,  — 

*'Andiamo/  to  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  as  we 
came ! " 

At  the  Cafe  Greco  that  evening  Galli,  penni- 
less but  proud  of  his  adventure,  borrowed  of 
Signorino  Jacca  twenty  centesimi  (four  cents) 
to  buy  a  piece  of  bread  and  a  few  pickled  gher- 
kins, which  he  brought  back  in  a  piece  of  paper 
and  munched  contentedly  for  his  supper. 

Remembering  Galli's  talent  for  likenesses,  J. 
once  persuaded  a  pretty  young  American  girl 
to  sit  to  him  for  her  portrait.  When  they  arrived 
at  the  studio  for  the  first  sitting,  the  room  was  so 
littered  with  rubbish  that  there  was  hardly  space  to 
turn  round  ;  tiers  of  vile-smelling  old  petroleum 
cases  were  piled  against  the  wall.  "  What  on 
earth  have  you  got  in  those  boxes,  Galli  ? "  J. 
demanded. 

"  They  contain  my  invention,"  said  Galli. 

"  May  one  ask  its  nature  ? " 

182 


ROMAN   CODGERS  AND   SOLITARIES 

"Altrof  it  is  the  model  of  a  bridge  to  cross 
the  Atlantic  from  Italy  to  the  United  States." 

It  was  a  cold  day ;  to  warm  the  room  for  his 
sitter,  Galli  had  picked  up  a  few  bits  of  charcoal, 
which  smouldered  in  a  frying-pan  without  a 
handle  (his  only  stove)  in  the  middle  of  the 
studio.  While  Galli  was  finding  a  chair  for  the 
lady,  J.  discovered  seven  rat  traps,  each  inhabited 
by  a  large  family  of  mice. 

"  They  disturbed  me  so  much,  scrabbling  about 
and  gnawing  things,"  Galli  explained,  "  that  I 
was  obliged  to  catch  them." 

"  If  the  mice  disturb  you,  why  do  you  keep 
them?  You  have  not  the  heart  to  kill  them? 
Tell  the  janitor  to  put  the  traps  in  a  pail  of 
water;  it  will  be  over  in  a  minute,"  said  the 
practical  American  girl. 

"  Drown  them  —  my  only  companions  ?  See 
—  their  beautiful  little  ears  are  veined  like  the 
petal  of  a  flower,  look  at  their  bright  eyes,  their 
dear  little  feet."  He  held  the  cage  up  to  the  light. 
"  They  know  me,  they  depend  upon  me  for  their 
food!" 

He  took  half  a  roll  —  J.  says  it  was  half  of 
GaUi's  own  breakfast  — from  his  pocket  and  began 
crumbling  it  into  one  of  the  traps. 

183 


ROMA  BEATA 

"  Show  us  what  you  have  been  painting  lately, 
Signor  Galli,"  said  the  young  lady.  The  old 
man  moved  his  easel  into  the  light. 

"  This  is  my  latest  picture." 

J.  says  that  American  girl  showed  real  breed- 
ing; she  neither  laughed  nor  cried  at  the 
thing  Galli  uncovered.  If  it  was  not  a  picture 
it  was  the  work  of  a  man  of  rare  imagination. 
The  divine  spark  had  kindled  at  a  moment  when 
no  tools  were  at  hand.  His  credit  on  that 
almost  inexhaustible  fund,  the  generosity  of  his 
brother  artists,  had  long  been  overdrawn.  His 
friends  were  tired  of  supplying  canvas,  paints, 
brushes.  Galli  lacking  everything,  possessed 
only  of  the  idea,  could  not  rest  till  it  was  ex- 
pressed. He  had  cut  off  the  tail  of  his  gray 
flannel  shirt,  stretched  it  for  a  canvas,  found  a 
piece  of  old  blue  cardboard,  pasted  it  on  for  the 
sky ;  he  had  dried  lettuce  leaves  and  applied 
them  for  the  middle  distance,  and  used  for  the 
detail  of  the  foreground  bits  of  dried  water- 
melon rind  and  other  such  rubbish.  The  "pic- 
ture "  was  a  thing  to  draw  tears  from  a  stone ! 

The  rumor  of  the  invention  in  the  petroleum 
boxes  suggested  to  some  of  the  younger  artists 
a  plan  by  which  .fresh  interest  might  be  aroused 

184 


ROMAN   CODGERS  AND   SOLITARIES 

for  Galli's  benefit.  They  asked  him  to  prepare 
a  lecture  explaining  the  theory  of  his  bridge. 
Tickets  were  sold  and  quite  a  large  audience 
gathered  at  the  Artists'  Club  to  hear  him.  When 
he  appeared  some  of  the  more  boisterous  spirits 
began  to  guy  him  ;  this  nettled  the  old  fellow : 
"  You  perhaps  think  this  invention  of  mine  an 
impossibility,"  he  began.  "  To  show  you  how 
simple  it  is  to  get  to  America  without  going 
on  one  of  those  abominable  steamers,  I  will 
explain  to  you  how  to  get  to  the  moon.  You 
all  know  that  the  moon  is  una  feviina  (a 
female)  ?  Well,  all  females  are  devoured  by 
curiosity.  Only  let  all  the  people  upon  the 
earth  assemble  together  in  one  place,  and 
the  moon  will  observe  that  something  out  of 
the  common  is  going  on  down  here  :  she  will 
approach  nearer  and  nearer  to  see  what  it  is 
all  about,  until  she  gets  so  near  that  all  we 
shall  have  to  do  is  to  jump  over  on  her  and 
then  she  will  not  be  able  to  get  away." 


[Galli's  last  commission  was  to  decorate  one 
of  the  cheap  Roman  cafes.  Villegas  says  that 
it  was  a  wonderful  piece  of  work,  full  of  power 

185 


ROMA  BEATA 

and  originality.  Not  long  after  it  was  finished 
some  smug  swine  of  a  painter  (one  of  those 
poor  craftsmen  who  have  cheapened  the  name 
of  Italian  art)  persuaded  the  proprietor  to  let 
him  paint  out  Galli's  work  and  redecorate  the 
cafe  with  his  own  vulgar  trash.  This  broke  the 
old  man's  heart ;  soon  after  he  was  found  dead  in 
his  studio  lying  between  two  chairs.  It  was  inevi- 
table that  he  should  come  to  some  such  end,  and  a 
thousand  times  better  for  him  to  drop  in  harness 
than  to  wear  out  the  years  in  idleness.  Unlike 
my  friend,  the  newsboy-rumseller-grandfather  of 
princes,  his  only  joy  was  in  labor,  in  striving  to 
express  to  others  the  beauty  that  possessed  his 
soul.  Is  it  not  by  this  sign  that  the  elect  are 
known  ?  ] 


186 


IX 

BLACK  MAGIC  AND  WHITE— WITCffS  NIGHT 

Palazza  Rosncucci,  Rome,  March  16,  1899. 

Letters  from  Maine  and  New  Hampshire  give 
accounts  of  dreadful  freshets  and  bUzzards.  We 
read  them  with  some  surprise,  and  then  go  up  to 
the  terrace  and  pick  our  pansies  and  violets. 
We  have  some  fine  spirea  and  lilacs  coming  on 
fast  I  The  wall  flowers  are  already  in  bloom,  and 
the  roses  make  occasional  little  gifts,  but  it  is  far 
too  early  for  these  dear  ones  to  give  their  per- 
fect blossoms.  Rose  week  —  rose  madness  —  in 
Rome  comes  at  the  end  of  April. 

The  strangest  thing  about  life  in  Rome  is  that 
you  not'  only  do  as  the  Romans  do,  but  end  by 
thinking  as  the  Romans  think,  feeling  as  the 
Romans  feel  I  Take,  for  example,  the  feeling  most 
of  the  foreign  residents  have  about  the  evil  eye, 
the  malocchio  or  jettatura,  as  it  is  indifferently 
called.  I  never  knew  an  Italian  who  did  not  hold 
to  this  superstition  more  or  less.     Americans  who 

187 


ROMA  BEATA 

have  lived  long  in  Rome  either  reluctantly  admit 
that  "  there  does  seem  to  be  something  in  it,"  or  if 
they  are  Roman  born,  quietly  accept  it  as  one  of 
those  things  in  heaven  and  earth  that  philosophy 
fails  to  take  account  of.  In  some  things  the 
Italian  is  free  from  superstition  compared  with 
the  Celt  or  the  Scot :  for  instance,  the  fear  of 
ghosts  or  spirits  is  so  rare  that  I  have  never  met 
with  it ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  belief  in  the 
value  of  dreams  as  guides  to  action  is  deep  rooted 
and  widespread.  The  dreambook  in  some  fami- 
lies is  hardly  second  in  importance  to  the  book 
of  prayer.  The  Italian's  eminently  practical 
nature  makes  him  utilize  his  dreams  in  "  playing 
the  lotto,"  as  the  buying  of  lottery  tickets  is 
called.  To  dream  of  certain  things  indicates  that 
you  will  be  lucky  and  should  play.  The  choice 
of  the  number  is  the  chief  preoccupation  of  the 
hardened  lottery  player.  It  is  decided  by  the 
oddest  chance,  —  the  number  on  a  banknote  which 
one  has  lost  and  found  again,  the  number  of  a 
cab  which  has  brought  one  home  from  some  de- 
lightful festivity.  The  number  must  always  be 
associated  with  something  lucky.  I  remember 
in  Venice  once  calling  on  a  friend  who  lives  in  a 
noble  old  palace  on   the  Canale  Grande.     The 

188 


BLACK   MAGIC   AND   WHITE 

palii  the  dark  posts  rising  out  of*  the  green  water 
for  the  mooring  of  gondolas,  bear  the  heraldic 
colors  of  the  owner  of  the  palace,  and  the  doge's 
cap,  showing  that  the  family  gave  a  doge  to 
Venice.  Stepping  from  my  gondola  to  the 
water- worn  marble  stair,  I  was  helped  by  one  of 
the  servants,  an  old  man  with  the  suave,  sympa- 
thetic manners  that  make  the.  Italians  the  best 
servants  in  the  world.  I  put  him  down  as  a 
majordomo  of  the  old  school  whom  my  friends 
probably  had  taken  over  with  the  palace,  the 
library,  and  the  historic  murder  that  goes  with 
them.  I  had  brought  some  flowers,  which  he 
insisted  upon  carrying.  He  led  the  way  across 
a  square  courtyard  to  an  outer  stairway  with  a 
wonderful  carved  marble  balustrade,  lions  ram- 
pant at  the  top  and  bottom.  Suddenly  he  stopped 
and  whispered  to  me  : 

**  Signora,  —  a  thousand  excuses  for  the  liberty, 
—  but  will  you  have  the  inexpressible  gentility 
to  tell  me  your  age  ? " 

The  question  was  so  startling  that  he  got  the 
right  answer  before  my  inevitable  counter-ques- 
tion, "  Why  do  you  wish  to  know  ? "  which  he 
pretended  not  to  hear,  drowned  in  a  flood  of 
gratitude. 

189 


ROMA  BEATA 

'-  ^ou  have  conferred  an  immense  benefit  on 
me.     The  signora  is  expecting  you." 

He  had  my  wrap  off  and  the  drawing-room 
door  open  in  a  twinkhng.  That  was  not  fair 
play ;  he  had  his  answer :  I  would  have  mine.  I 
put  my  question  to  his  mistress.  She  laughed 
indulgently. 

"  Beppino  is  up  to  his  old  tricks.  I  told  him 
this  morning  I  was  expecting  a  lady  he  did  not 
know  ;  he  was  on  the  lookout  for  you.  When  a 
stranger  comes  to  the  house  for  the  first  time  it 
is  the  greatest  possible  luck  to  play  in  the  lotto 
the  figures  which  make  up  his  age." 

Our  servants  all  play  regularly,  sometimes 
winning  small  sums,  always  imagining  that  they 
will  win  the  quaterno.  The  lottery  and  the 
Monte  di  pieta  —  somehow  one  associates  them 
together  —  are  now  under  government  control, 
as  they  were  formerly  under  the  control  of  the 
Church.  It  is  assumed  as  a  foregone  conclusion 
that  men  will  gamble,  that  men  will  pawn  their 
goods  ;  therefore  it  is  expedient  that  these  inevi- 
table concomitants  of  city  life  should  be  adminis- 
tered by  the  government,  in  order  that  the  accru- 
ing profits  should  return  to  the  people  by  helping 
to  pay  the  expenses  of  their  government.     The 

190 


BLACK  MAGIC   AND   WHITE 

lottery  always  appears  to  me  like  a  tax  offered 
to  the  citizens  in  the  form  of  a  gilded  pill. 

The  Monte  di  pieta  seems  to  be  a  really  be- 
neficent institution ;  it  is  well  administered,  the 
percentage  charged  on  the  money  loaned  being 
as  low  as  is  practicable.  Poor  old  Nena's 
coral  earrings  and  gold  beads  live  there  chron- 
ically, only  appearing  upon  her  small  person 
periodically  on  "  feast "  days.  Several  times  webs 
of  fine  linen,  silverware,  and  other  household 
furnishings  have  been  offered  me  at  so  low  a 
price  by  one  of  our  clients  (we  use  the  old  Roman 
term  for  the  army  of  hangers-on  which  has  grown 
up  about  us)  that  I  feared  to  buy  them  lest  I 
should  be  purchasing  stolen  goods.  On  investi- 
gation I  found  the  woman's  business  was  to  buy 
unredeemed  pledges  at  the  regular  sales  of  the 
Monte,  and  to  hawk  them  about  to  private  cus- 
tomers. After  that  I  had  not  the  heart  to  buy 
anything  she  offered,  it  seemed  like  building  our 
house  of  the  driftwood  of  despair.  The  Monte 
is  a  huge  gray  palace  occupying  a  whole  square 
behind  the  Palazzo  Santacroce.  Over  the  main 
entrance  hangs  a  life-sized  crucifix.  The  institu- 
tion was  founded  in  the  year  1539  and  has  been 
in  operation  ever  since. 

191 


ROMA   BEATA 

The  evolution  of  Christian  out  of  pagan  Rome 
is  not  more  interesting  than  the  evolution  still 
going  on  of  Rome  the  modern  capital  out  of 
that  picturesque,  medieeval  Rome  of  the  "for- 
ties," which  my  mother  has  described  to  me  so 
vividly  that  it  is  as  if  I  myself  had  seen  it. 

Since  we  have  been  here,  the  old  meek  horse- 
cars  have  been  taken  off,  and  horrible  *'  electrics  " 
whiz  by  our  door  and  stop  at  the  corner  of  the 
Piazza  of  St.  Peter's.  And  —  even  worse,  I  am 
almost  afraid  to  write  it  to  you  —  we  have  a 
telephone  I 

A  telephone  in  the  Eternal  City !  In  the  be- 
ginning I  was  as  much  shocked  by  the  idea  as 
you  can  be.  The  first  conversation  over  the 
wire  consoled  me.  Ice-chests,  electric  cars,  and 
telephones  only  bring  home  more  strongly  the 
feeling  that  life  in  Rome  is  modern,  medias- 
val,  and  pagan,  all  at  the  same  time ;  it  is  all 
here  in  strata,  like  the  rubbish  Signor  Boni  is  ex- 
cavating from  the  Roman  Forum.  When  you 
first  come  here  you  assume  that  you  must  bur- 
row about  in  ruins  and  prowl  in  museums  to  get 
back  to  the  days  of  Numa  Pompilius  or  Mark 
Antony.  It  is  not  necessary ;  you  only  have  to 
Hve,  and  the  common  happenings  of  daily  life  — 

192 


BLACK  MAGIC   AND   WHITE 

yes,  even  the  trolley  car  and  your  bicycle  — 
carry  you  back  in  turn  to  the  Dark  Ages,  to  the 
early  Christians,  even  to  prehistoric  Rome  ! 

The  day  our  telephone  was  installed  I  was 
called  by  the  ding-a-ling  of  the  bell,  and  "  cen- 
tralc"  put  me  in' communication,  not  only  with 

our  friend,  Mrs.  Z ,  but  with  the  Rome  of 

Horace  and  the  witch  Canidia  as  well. 

"  Can  you  come  to  dinner  next  Monday  ? " 
Mrs.  Z began. 

"We  will   come   with   leaps   and   shrieks  of 

joy-" 

"  Wait ;  do  not  accept  till  you  hear  who  else 
is  coming.  We  are  giving  the  dinner  in  honor 
of  M.  de  Gooch." 

"  So  much  the  better.  We  like  to  meet  dis- 
tinguished Frenchmen." 

"  You  are  sure  you  do  not  mind  meeting  this 
particular  Frenchman  ? " 

"  Why  in  the  name  of  common  sense  should 
we  mind  ? " 

"  Well,  you  know  what  they  say  about  him  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you   are  not  afraid  ?     I  am  positiv^ely 
grateful  to  you.     We  are   having  the   hai'dest 
time  to  fill  the  eight  places  at  the  table." 
13  193 


ROMA  BEATA 

"  What  particular  variety  of  heathen  are  you 
inviting  ? " 

"  American." 

That  afternoon  we  had  a  visit  from  an  American 
gentleman,  a  friend  of  ours  and  of  the  Z 's. 

"  Shall  we  meet  next  Monday  at  the  Z 's 

dinner  ?  "  I  asked  in  the  course  of  conversation. 

"No,  they  were  good  enough  to  invite  me, 
but  I  got  out  of  it." 

I  stared   at  him  —  he  is  one  of  the  Z 's 

greatest  friends. 

"  Yes,  the  fact  is  1  will  not  go  where  I  have 
to  meet  that  man." 

"  You  ?  you  beheve  that  M.  de  Gooch  has  the 
evil  eye  ? " 

"  It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  look  scornful  I 
Just  wait  a  little.  I  used  to  take  your  point  of 
view,  but  so  many  uncomfortable  things  happened 
that  I  now  avoid  the  man  like  the  plague." 

"  What  sort  of  uncomfortable  things  ?  " 

"  We  were  once  at  a  hotel  in  Naples.  The  first 
time  that  person  —  it  is  not  well  to  mention 
his  name  —  came  into  the  dining-room,  a  waiter 
stumbled  and  dropped  a  tray  full  of  valuable 
Venetian  glass  ;  every  piece  was  smashed  :  the 
second  time,  the  big  chandelier  fell  down  from 

194 


BLACK  MAGIC  AND   WHITE 

the  ceiling.  That  evening  the  proprietor  begged 
this  person  to  leave  the  hotel,  said  all  the  other 
guests  would  go  if  he  did  not,  as  it  was  evident 
he  had  the  maloccJuo.  Basta !  let  us  speak  of 
other  things." 

After  the  visitor  left  I  went  up  to  the  terrace 
to  feed  the  goldfish.  Pompilia  was  on  her  knees 
digging  around  the  roots  of  the  big  honeysuckle. 
I  looked  at  Soracte,  beloved  of  Horace.  Soracte 
looked  at  me. 

"  Pompilia,  do  you  know  any  one  who  has  the 
vialocchio  ?  "  She  turned  pale,  scrambled  to  her 
feet,  and  made  the  sign  against  witchcraft  with 
the  first  and  fourth  finger. 

"  Signora  mia,  eke  pavra  mi  ha  fatto  (What  a 
fright  you  gave  me)  I "  She  reflected  a  moment : 
"You  remember  the  earbonaro  who  used  to 
bring  the  charcoal  every  Saturday  ?  I  told  you 
he  cheated  us  ;  you  discharged  him.  It  was  not 
true,  he  gave  good  measure.  I  do  not  wish  to 
harm  him,  but  every  time  he  came  into  the 
kitchen  some  disgrazia  happened.  The  soup 
was  burned,  the  milk  curdled,  or  the  salt  got 
into  the  ice-cream." 

**  Do  you  believe  the  earbonaro  wished  to  in- 
jure us  ?     Did  he  desire  to  bring  misfortune  ?  " 

195 


ROMA  BEATA 

"  It  is  his  misfortune  to  bring  misfortune," 
Pompilia  reluctantly  explained  ;  "  one  may  even 
be  sorry  for  him,  but  one  spits  as  one  passes  him, 
and  makes  the  corni  (horns)  with  the  hand  be- 
hind the  back  to  avert  the  jettatura.  Ma,  Si- 
gnora  mia,  per  carita,  parliamo  (Taltre  cose  (For 
charity's  sake,  let  us  talk  of  other  things)  I  Ob- 
serve this  noble  tulip,  the  first  to  bloom  of  those 
HoUandish  bulbs  we  set  out  in  the  autumn." 
She  feels  the  flowers  to  be  hers  quite  as  much  as 
ours,  as  indeed  they  are,  she  is  so  faithful  in  car- 
ing for  them. 

We  put  on  all  our  war-paint  for  the  Z 's 

party ;  so  did  the  other  guests.  It  was  one  of  the 
best  dinners  I  have  seen  in  Rome.  Everybody 
seemed  on  their  mettle  to  make  it  go  off  well.  It 
was  put  through  with  unlimited  conversational 
fireworks  and  champagne.  De  Gooch  thawed  out 
as  I  have  never  known  him  to  do  before ;  he  is  usu- 
ally congealed  by  the  chilly  atmosphere  which  he, 

poor  man,  brings  with  him.     I  asked  Mr.  Z 

how  he  accounted  for  the  evil  stories.     He  said  : 

"  Some  enemy,  who  spreads  the  reports, 
takes  this  dreadful  way  to  destroy  him  I  " 

The  dinner  was  so  merry  that  the  coming  of 
the  coffee  instead  of  being  a  relief  w^as  a  surprise. 

196 


BLACK  MAGIC  AND   WHITE 

M.  de  Gooch   after  a  moment's  hesitation  re- 
fused the  cup  offered  him. 

"  I  am  rather  proud  of  my  coffee,  change  your 
mind  and  try  a  little,"  said  Mrs.  Z . 

I  was  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  De  GoocH, 
and  heard  him  say  in  a  low  voice,  — 

"  Are  you  sure  of  your  cook  ? " 

"  Perfectly  ;  he  is  a  Piedmontese,  he  has  been 
with  us  ten  years,  his  coffee  may  be  trusted." 

Do  you  know  what  that  meant?  It  meant 
that  De  Gooch  is  afraid  of  being  poisoned,  that 
poison  is  most  commonly  administered  in  coffee 
or  chocolate,  vide  the  Roman  idiom,  "  Ha  hevuto 
una  tazza  di  doccolata  (He  has  drunk  a  cup  of 

chocolate)."     I  asked  Mr.  Z if  he  believed 

anybody  wanted  to  murder  De  Gooch.     He  said : 

'*  I  do  not  believe  him  in  more  danger  of  poi- 
son than  of  a  lightning  stroke.  It  is  not  won- 
derful, however,  that  he  thinks  he  is." 

"  Is  not  the  mahcchio  very  like  the  voodoo  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  It  is  a  horse  of  the  same  color.  Both  came 
out  of  darkest  Africa,  whose  shadows  fall  across 
the  broad  earth." 

I  take  back  every  word  I  ever  said  against 
missionaries  I 

197 


ROMA  BEATA 

Poisoning,  like  other  sins,  has  two  degrees,  the 
mortal  and  the  venial.  If  M.  de  Gooch  is  in  no 
danger  from  the  mortal,  we,  according  to  Nena 
and  Pompilia,  were  in  danger  of  the  venial  not 
so  long  ago.  During  a  short  absence  of  Pom- 
pilia's  we  had  a  foreign  cook,  and  parted  with 
her  not  on  the  best  terms.  The  day  after  she 
left  Pompilia  returned,  coming  to  me  in  the 
course  of  the  morning  with  a  long  Hst  of  grocer- 
ies ;  those  staples,  jTanVia,  Parmegiano,  and  caffe, 
headed  the  memorandum. 

"  But  we  cannot  have  used  up  five  kilos  of 
coffee.  It  is  impossible  that  we  are  out  of  flour 
and  Parmesan  cheese ;  we  bought  them  only 
three  days  ago." 

You  see  I  am  getting  on,  I  now  manage  — 
though  it  is  highly  disapproved  of  by  the  powers 
that  be  —  to  lay  in  a  few  groceries,  which  I  buy 
at  the  Unione  Militare  —  government  stores 
hke  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores  in  London. 

"When  I  returned  this  morning,  there  was 
not  a  crumb  in  the  house,"  said  PompiUa.  Nena 
was  appealed  to. 

"  Nena,  what  about  the  Parmegiano,  the 
farina^  and  the  caffe  you  bought  the  other 
day  ? " 

198 


BLACK  MAGIC  AND  WHITE 

"  Signora,  I  was  obliged  to  throw  them  all 
into  the  immondezza  (garbage)." 

"  But  why  ?  " 

"Signora!  I  say  nothing.  That  black  Te- 
desca,  when  she  left,  did  not  wish  us  others  well, 
nor  even  your  signorial  selves.  I  did  what  I 
did  for  the  best."  She  looked  at  Pompilia  for 
confirmation.  The  cook  shook  her  handsome 
head. 

**  With  respect,  Nena  has  done  right.  1  would 
neither  have  served  on  your  table,  nor  allowed 
another  to  touch  any  food  that  black  German 
had  in  her  hands.  What  bad  thing  may  she  not 
have  mixed  with  it  ?  " 

I  suppose  I  looked  annoyed  at  the  thought  of 
the  good  food  wasted ;  they  both  eyed  me  judi- 
cially, but  firmly. 

"  Remember,  Madama,  that  you  commanded 
me  three  times  before  I  would  take  that  blessed 
order  to  the  Unione"  Nena  urged.  "  I  myself 
knew  it  was  a  waste  of  money  to  buy  those  gro- 
ceries when  the  German  was  leaving  so  soon. 
You  asked  me  the  first  time  Monday,  on  the 
stairs ;  I  told  you  that  the  shop  shut  early  on 
account  of  afesta  ;  you  asked  me  again  Tuesday, 
upon  the  terrace  (you   were  potting  the  large 

199 


ROMA  BEATA 

acanthus  at  the  time)  if  I  had  been  to  the  Unione  ; 
I  told  you  that  my  rheumatism  was  too  bad  for 
me  to  walk  so  far.  You  told  me  for  the  third 
time  Wednesday,  in  this  very  room,  in  the 
presence  of  the  Tedesca,  to  buy  those  things  !  1 
ask  you,  was  it  possible  for  me  to  longer  disobey, 
especially  as  the  Tedesca  heard  you  give  the 
order  ? " 

Nena  is  perfectly  honest  in  deed,  if  not  in 
word ;  I  would  trust  her  with  uncounted  money. 
This  was  no  comedy,  such  as  they  often  play 
for  my  benefit;  I  felt  the  reality  of  it. 

"What  sort  of  bad  thing  do  you  mean? 
Poison  ?  "  I  blurted  out  with  the  coarse  Anglo- 
Saxon  instinct  of  calling  a  spade  a  spade.  Such 
brusqueness  hurts  the  subtler  Latin  nature. 
"  Signora !  I  make  no  charges.  I  would  not 
say  poison,  no,  but  something  that  might  make 
one  very  ill  for  a  day  or  for  an  hour ;  how  do 
I  know  ? " 

They  got  away  as  soon  as  they  could ;  we 
have  not  spoken  of  the  matter  since.  The  next 
time  I  was  at  the  Vatican  T  dropped  into  the 
Sala  Borgia,  and  took  a  good  look  at  the  charm- 
ing portrait  of  Lucrezia  Borgia,  by  Pinturicchio, 
filled  with   a  realizing  sense  that  the  Rome   of 

200 


BLACK   MAGIC  AND  WHITE 

the  Borgias  was  not  so  far  away  from  my  Rome 
as  I  had  formerly  supposed. 

It  is  hard  for  us  to  reahze  the  deadly  signifi- 
cance to  an  Italian  of  the  suggestion  that  one 
may  have  the  evil  eye.  I  was  walking  one  day 
with  a  young  American  girl  to  whom  I  had  been 
unfolding  some  of  the  tragedies  I  have  known 
connected  with  the  superstition.  She  took  it  all 
Ughtly  and  joyously,  after  the  manner  of  her 
kind ;  and  later  during  our  walk,  when  a  saucy, 
tormenting  beggar  pursued  us,  she  made  the 
sign  of  the  corni  as  I  had  described  it  to  her, 
shaking  the  hand  slightly,  with  the  first  and 
fourth  finger  extended.  Then  the  beggar  became 
convulsed  with  anger  and  seemed  almost  beside 
herself,  shrieking  out  such  a  torrent  of  abuse 
that  we  were  glad  to  jump  into  a  cab  and  fly 
from  the  wrath  to  come.  The  poor  creature  was 
not  to  be  blamed :  she  knew  that  once  the 
shadow  of  suspicion  falls,  it  means  social  excom- 
munication, banishment  outside  the  pale  of  what- 
ever society  one  belongs  to  —  a  thing,  like  illness 
or  death,  as  much  to  be  dreaded  by  the  pauper  as 
by  the  Pope.  Many  people,  by  the  way,  believed 
that  Pius  IX  had  the  evil  eye,  and  made  the  sign 
of  the  cmni  behind  hat  or  fan  as  they  received 

201 


ROMA  BEATA 

his  benediction  in  front  of  St.  Peter's.  The 
Romans  generally  are  not  supposed  to  be  as  su- 
perstitious as  the  Neapolitans.  In  Naples  most 
people  wear,  as  a  charm,  a  little  hand  of  gold, 
coral,  or  mother  of  pearl,  with  the  fingers  in  the 
attitude  to  avert  evil.  Even  the  horses  wear 
horns  upon  their  harnesses  !  Some  of  our  Roman 
friends  are  not  without  faith  in  the  efficacy  of 
horns.  One  day,  when  my  painter  had  occasion 
to  go  behind  the  big  canvases  in  his  studio,  he 
found  that  an  artist  who  had  dropped  in  during 
his  absence  had  drawn  horns  with  a  bit  of  char- 
coal all  over  the  backs  of  his  pictures.  Later, 
when  the  work  was  finished  and  the  Queen  came 
to  the  studio  to  see  it,  the  friend  claimed  some 
of  the  credit  for  the  royal  visit. 

"  You  owe  all  your  luck  to  my  horns,"  he  said, 
half  in  fun,  half  in  earnest. 

June  24>,  1899. 

Last  night  was  St.  John's  eve.  I  gave  Pom- 
pilia  and  Filomena  a  holiday,  meaning  to  take 
the  opportunity  to  get  rid,  with  Nena's  aid,  of 
some  of  the  year's  accumulation  of  worn-out 
kitchen  utensils.  Pompilia  is  very  obstinate 
about  giving  up  such  things  ;  she  must  have  had 

202 


A  Lost  Love 

Tma  %  rad  chalk  drmwing  in  the  OoUeetion  of  Mr.  Thomaa  W.  lAwaon 


,y  niosl 


1  and  the  Queen  t 
r,  f\^e  ^  friend  claimed  some 


to  my  iiuras,   ne  said, 


^kuki  ui  iuii,  hiUl  Ui  eai'iio.si. 


June  24, 1899. 

Last  night  A^  I  gave  Pom 

pilia  and  Filomena  a  hoi  to  tak. 

opportunity  t( 
■■,e  year 
V 1  ti'  uc  •  1    n  tcnsils. 


CopyriKht,  1900,  by  John  Elliott. 
From  a  Copley  Print.    Copyright,  1901,  by  Curtis  &  Cameron,  Publishers.  BoMao. 


BLACK  MAGIC  AND  WHITE 

a  rag-and-bottle  man  for  an '  ancestor.  Nena, 
who  seUs  every  conceivable  bit  of  trash  I  give 
her,  aids  and  abets  me  in  these  acts  of  insubordi- 
nation. She  was  not  in  her  usual  spirits.  I  heard 
her  scolding  the  httle  Jew  boy  who  brought  home 
an  old  terra-cotta  cinerary  urn  we  had  bought  in 
the  morning  from  his  mother  Sora  Giulia. 

"What  dirty  robaccia  do  you  bring  into  this 
clean  house  ? "  she  demanded  in  her  gruff  sailor's 
voice. 

"  Cosa  ne  so  io  ?  the  signori  bought  it  to-day. 
I  heard  my  father  say  it  once  contained  the 
ashes  of  a  soldier  of  the  Pretorian  guard." 

"  What  guard  ?  " 

"  Of  the  old  time,  a  hundred  years  ago,  maybe  ; 
they  were  hke  the  carabinieri'' 

Nena  took  the  urn,  grumbling  under  her  breath, 
"  Li  mortacd  tuoi  (Your  miserable  dead)  I " 

"  Hein  ?  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Va  a  mo?'i  ammazzato  (Go  and  die  killed)  I " 
She  slammed  the  door  upon  him. 

A  minute  later  she  brought  the  urn  into  the 
den  and  put  it  carefully  down  on  the  table 
where  I  was  writing.  "  That  rascally  boy  of 
Sora  Giulia's  brought  this  home." 

"  You  formerly  were  friendly  with  Sora  GiuUa." 

203 


ROMA  BEATA 

She  wiped  her  eyes  with  a  little  red  wrinkled 
hand  that  trembled ;  something  troubled  her 
seriously. 

"  What  has  happened  ?   tell  me  frankly." 

She  began  to  cry  openly:  '' Miche  (the  cat) 
has  been  gone  three  days ;  he  will  never  return. 
I  shall  not  again  see  that  dear  animal ! " 

'' Miche  will  come  back;  perhaps  he  has  had 
a  fight,  as  he  did  once  before." 

"  No,  no,  Signora !  then  he  was  only  absent 
one  night,  after  the  manner  of  cats.  No,  era 
troppo  hello ^  era  troppo  hello  (he  was  too  beauti- 
ful)," she  wailed.  I  suppose  I  looked  as  puzzled 
as  I  felt,  for  she  broke  into  impassioned  expla- 
nations. *'  He  was  too  beautiful,  he  was  fat 
and  tender  as  well ;  quelli  maladetti  Ehrei  (those 
cursed  Jews)  have  killed  him  to  make  one  of  their 
accursed  feasts ;  they  have  doubtless  already 
eaten  him;  povera  hestia,  era  troppo  hello/'' 

To  console  her  I  proposed  that  we  get  to  work 
on  the  business  before  us.  In  a  closet  on  the 
stairs,  of  which  Nena  has  a  duplicate  key,  Pom- 
pilia  had  locked  up  empty  green  wicker  ricotta 
baskets,  marmalade  bottles,  petroleum  cans,  a 
pair  of  discarded  brooms,  and  other  such  rubbish. 

"  Can  you  sell  the  petroleum  cans? " 

204 


BLACK  MAGIC   AND   WHITE 

"  Ma  certo,  I  get  a  paulo  (ten  cents  apiece) 
for  them.  The  poor  use  them  for  flower  pots 
and  for  many  other  things." 

"  And  these  old  brooms,  can  you  get  anything 
for  them  ? " 

"  The  brooms  I  shall  not  sell.  It  would 
offend  the  scoparo,  who  is  my  fidend  and  has 
a  family  to  support;  but  as  we  happen  to  be 
m  need  of  them,  I  will,  with  your  permission, 
take  these  brooms  home." 

"  All  the  articles  in  this  closet  are  yours,  and 
welcome,  on  condition  you  take  them  away  this 
evening.  It  is  known  to  you  that  if  Pompilia 
were  here  she  would  never  let  them  go." 

"  You  have  reason,  Signora ;  I  will  go  imme- 
diately, taking  with  me  all  I  can  carry  and  re- 
turning for  the  rest." 

After  she  left  I  went  up  to  the  terrace  for 
the  sunset.  The  swallows  were  swooping  low 
overhead  ;  the  smell  of  the  gardenias  would  have 
been  overpowering  indoors;  the  passion  flower 
vine  was  in  full  bloom,  the  oleanders  ablaze  with 
tender  pink  blossoms  the  same  color  as  the  sky. 
As  I  was  mooning  about,  leaning  on  the  parapet 
and  watching  the  blue  fade  out  of  Peter's  dome, 
I  became  aware  of  a  hubbub  in  the  street  below. 

205 


ROMA  BEATA 

There  were  cries  of  "  Una  strega^  una  strega  (A 
witch,  a  witch),"  ^^Scacciala,  scacciala  (Chase  her, 
chase  her),"  hoots  of  derision,  screams  of  laughter. 

"  How  she  runs !  Brava  vecchiarella  (Good  for 
you,  old  woman)  I " 

"  Viliacchi  (Cowards)  I " 

The  noise  grew  nearer,  the  crowd  seemed  to 
be  stopping  at  our  portone. 

^^Che  te  possono  scanna  (May  you  be  slaugh- 
tered)!" The  deep  bass  voice  was  familiar.  I 
leaned  over  the  parapet  just  in  time  to  see  Nena, 
a  tiny  figure,  with  two  brooms  over  her  shoulder, 
turn  and  hurl  defiance  at  her  tormentors,  in 
the  front  rank  of  whom  I  recognized  the  little 
Jew  boy. 

"  Guastate  (May  you  waste  away)  I  "  With 
this  true  witch's  curse  Nena  managed  to  shut 
the  door  of  the  big  portone  in  the  faces  of  her 
pursuers.  I  ran  and  opened  the  old  green  door 
of  the  apartment  to  let  her  in. 

"What  in  the  name  of  the  apostles  has 
happened  ?  " 

Nena  was  trembling  with  passion. 

"  Ah,  that  Hebrew  Jew !  I  will  punish  him 
yet.  He  led  the  others  on,  saying  I  was  a  witch. 
Truly,  Signora,  it  was  not  a  happy  chance  that 

206 


BLACK  MAGIC  AND   WHITE 

made  you  give  me  those  brooms  to  take  home 
this  particular  evening,  the  night  on  which  the 
ignorant  and  superstitious  believe  that  the  witches 
ride.  In  every  other  house  in  the  Borgo  a  dish 
of  salt  and  a  broom  are  placed  outside  the  win- 
dow, that  the  witches  may  be  averted  from  enter- 
ing and  fly  away  on  the  broomstick.  Doubtless 
Pompilia  saved  these  brooms  for  that  object  — 
but,  as  you  know,  I  am  not  superstitious,  I  don't 
beheve  such  stuff.     To  take  me  for  a  witch,  me  !  " 

Nena  cannot  be  more  than  four  feet  seven 
inches  high ;  she  has  a  rough  gray  head,  sharp 
black  eyes,  and  a  long  nose.  She  wears  a  queer, 
old-fashioned  three-cornered  shawl  over  her 
stooping  shoulders,  her  feet  swim  about  in  a  pair 
of  my  old  boots.  There  was,  I  confess,  some 
excuse  for  the  jest  I 

St.  John's  eve  I  Witch's  night !  In  order 
that  no  harm  may  befall  one,  it  is  safest  to  sit 
up  all  night.  To  sit  up  all  night  alone,  or  in 
the  company  of  one's  family,  is  rather  cold  com- 
fort; so  the  sociable  Romans  spend  the  night 
in  one  vast  nocturnal  picnic.  We  left  home 
at  ten  o'clock ;  in  the  Piazza  Scossa  CavaUi  we 
found  every  cab  gone  except  the  gobbo's  (hunch- 
back's).    This  was  great  luck,  to  be  driven  by 

207 


ROMA  BEATA 

the  gobho,  all  the  more  as  it  was  by  chance  ;  if 
we  had  engaged  him  beforehand,  it  would  not 
have  counted.     As  soon  as  we  started  J.  sneezed. 

*^  Salute,  Signore  (Your  health,  sir,  —  the 
equivalent  of  *  Bless  you'),"  said  \h!^gohho.  This 
meant  more  luck.  By  the  time  we  reached  the 
Via  Merulana  the  gobhos  white  horse  —  a  white 
horse  is  lucky  —  dropped  into  a  walk.  The 
crowd  of  cabs  was  so  great  that  jfrom  there  on 
to  the  Piazza  San  Giovanni  we  were  obhged  to 
move  at  a  snail's  pace. 

"  Volete  spigo,  Signori  ?  "  cried  a  vendor,  thrust- 
ing a  bunch  of  lavender  into  the  cab. 

"  Bisogna  prenderla,  Signori"  said  the  gohbo  ; 
"you  must  buy  lavender  for  yourself,  for  me, 
even  for  my  poor  beast.  It  is  the  rule  to  wear 
lavender  on  St.  John's  eve."  We  bought  laven- 
der for  the  party,  the  white  horse  included. 

A  little  farther  on  another  vendor  stopped  us. 

"  How  is  this  ? "  he  said  gravely  ;  "  you  are 
without  red  carnations  ;  that  is  not  well." 

" He  is  right,  Signori,"  said  the  gobbo ;  "we 
must  wear  red  carnations  as  well  as  lavender." 

We  bought  enough  red  carnations  for  an  army. 

"  What  do  the  lavender  and  the  carnations 
signify  ? " 

208 


BLACK  MAGIC  AND   WHITE 

"  Who  knows,  Signora  ?  it  is  the  custom  to 
wear  them.  One  says  it  brings  buona  fortuna^ 
another  that  it  keeps  the  witches  away  ;  it  is  well 
to  be  on  the  safe  side." 

As  the  cab  came  to  a  dead  stop  for  a  moment 
outside  a  trattoria,  a  saucy  boy  sprang  on  the 
step  and  asked  for  a  soldo  to  buy  a  dish  of 
snails. 

"  Do  not  refuse,"  said  the  gobho;  "  he  is  a 
good  boy ;  it  is  the  custom  on  the  eve  of  San 
Giovanni  to  eat  snails  and  polenta,  as  you  may 
see  for  yourselves." 

Over  the  door  of  the  trattoria  hung  an  illumi- 
nated transparency :  on  one  side  was  a  picture 
of  a  large  snail,  on  the  other  a  witch  riding  a 
broomstick. 

"  Agio,  Agio  (Garlic).  Who  wants  agio  ? 
There  is  nothing  so  good  against  the  fascino 
(fascination)  as  agh!'' 

We  bought  a  pair  of  long-stemmed  garlic 
blossoms,  in  shape  not  unlike  the  classic  thyrsus. 

"  Campanelle,  campanelle,  who  wants  the  cam- 
panclk  ?  The  witches  fly  away  at  the  sound  of 
these  marvellous  campanelle" 

Everybody  but  ourselves  had  apparently  al- 
ready bought  campanelle ;  all  the  people  in  the 

1*  209 


ROMA  BEATA 

carriages  and  on  the  sidewalk  carried  these 
small  terra-cotta  bells,  which  they  rang  violently 
at  each  other  and  at  the  witches.  The  bells 
were  of  two  sizes. 

"  Buy  a  large  one  for  yourself,  Signore,  and  a 
small  one  for  the  lady,"  counselled  the  gobbo. 

"  And  one  for  you  and  one  for  the  mare  ?  " 

"  Naturally.  The  animal  cannot  well  spare  a 
hand  to  ring  her  campanello,  so  we  will  tie  it 
about  her  neck." 

Peacock  feathers  were  next  offered ;  the  gobbo 
was  prejudiced  against  them  and  advised  us  not 
to  buy  them.  There  seems  to  be  a  divided  feel- 
ing about  peacocks'  feathers  ;  some  people  hold 
that  they  bring  bad  luck,  others  that  they  avert 
it. 

We  left  the  carriage  at  the  piazza,  which  was 
lined  with  booths,  illuminated  with  flaring 
torches.  These  stalls  extend  quite  a  distance 
down  the  Via  Appia  Nuova,  outside  Porta  San 
Giovanni.  Some  displayed  the  classic  bush,  from 
the  earliest  time  the  sign  of  the  wine  shop.  Out- 
side one  of  the  most  important  booths  hung  a 
large  painted  head  of  the  wine  god  crowned  with 
leaves,  bearing  the  words,  "  A  Baccho."  At 
some  stalls  fried  pancakes  and  gnocchi  di  patate 

210 


BLACK  MAGIC  AND  WHITE 

were  sold.  Gnocchi  is  one"  of  the  delicious 
Roman  dishes.  It  is  made  of  potatoes  and  corn 
meal,  bewitched  together  into  miniature  oval 
croquettes,  and  served  with  a  rich  sauce  of  to- 
mato conserve  and  Parmesan  cheese ;  truly  a 
dish  fit  for  the  gods.  Near  the  gnocchi  booth 
was  a  stall  hung  with  evergreens,  where  a  man 
in  white  linen  clothes  and  cap  stood  beside  an 
enormous  roasted  hog,  brandishing  a  huge  knife. 

**  3Iajale  arosto  —  ah  che  bel  majale  (Roast  pig 
—  oh,  what  a  beautiful  pig)." 

At  some  of  the  stands  toys  and  dolls  were 
sold.  I  was  kept  away  from  certain  of  these,  as 
J.  said  the  toys  were  shockingly  indecent ;  those 
I  saw  were  ordinary  every-day  toys  which  the 
elders  bought  for  the  children.  When  one  goes 
to  the^^^^a  of  San  Giovanni  one  takes  the  whole 
family  along,  —  grandmothers,  grandfathers, 
babies,  and  all.  The  noisy  people  were  all  gath- 
ered together  in  the  piazza  and  the  Via  Appia 
Nuova ;  the  quieter  sort  were  scattered  about  in 
groups  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd.  On  the 
right-hand  side,  at  a  little  distance  from  the  Church 
of  St.  John  Lateran,  there  is  a  hillside  with  an- 
cient ilex  trees.  This  dark  hillside  was  dotted 
with  torches  and  candles,  each  the  centre  of  a 

21] 


ROMA  BEATA 

knot  of  people.  We  soon  left  the  turmoil  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  booths,  and  strayed  about 
among  the  quieter  folks.  Under  a  dark  gnarled 
tree  a  group  of  people  had  made  themselves 
comfortable.  On  the  trunk  above  their  heads 
two  long  garlic  stalks  were  nailed  crosswise  to 
avert  evil.  Directly  below  the  cross  sat  a  lovely 
young  woman  suckling  a  large  baby ;  it  must 
have  been  eighteen  months  old.  Beside  her  an 
aged  woman  held  in  her  lap  a  four-year-old  child 
whose  chubby  hands  were  stretched  out  to  touch 
the  nursling ;  in  the  shadow  behind  stood  a 
grave  bearded  man.  The  huckster's  cart  that 
had  brought  them  was  drawn  up  near  by,  the 
donkey  could  be  dimly  seen  munching  a  bundle 
of  hay. 

"Behold  Mary  and  the  Child,  St.  Elizabeth 
and  St.  John,  with  the  good  St.  Joseph  taking 
care  of  them  all,"  said  Vincenzo,  who  had  seen  us 
and  followed  us  up  from  the  piazza.  As  we 
stood  entranced  before  this  living  Holy  Family 
the  moon  rose  full  and  yellow  over  the  dark  hill- 
side ;  for  a  moment  we  saw  it  behind  the  head 
of  that  young  mother  like  a  halo.  It  was  a 
group  worthy  the  pencil  of  Raphael. 

"  Che  helUfanciulU  (What  beautiful  children)," 

212 


BLACK  MAGIC  AND  WHITE 

I  said  to  Vincenzo.  St.  Elizabeth,  hearing  the 
innocent  words,  caught  the  Uttle  St.  John  behind 
her,  scowling  and  muttering  angrily  at  me. 

"  Come  away,  quickly,"  said  Vincenzo,  urging 
me  down  the  hill ;  "  don't  you  know  that  you 
must  never  praise  a  child  in  that  way  ?  of  all 
times  on  the  night  of  San  Giovanni  I  " 

"  It  is  time  to  go  home,"  said  J.  I  begged  a 
few  minutes'  grace,  for  just  at  that  moment  a 
heavy  car  hung  with  laurel  garlands  drawn  by 
milk-white  oxen  with  gilded  horns  creaked  into 
the  piazza.  The  car  was  filled  with  young  men 
in  costume  singing  to  the  music  of  guitar  and 
mandolin.  They  were  all  masked ;  from  the 
trappings  of  the  car  and  their  cultivated  voices  we 
fancied  them  to  be  persons  of  some  distinction. 

A  high  tenor  voice  pierced  the  babel  of  sound  : 
">SW  la  Rosa  piu  bella  che  c'e  (Thou  art  the 
most  beautiful  rose  that  is)  I " 

It  was  near  midnight :  the  fun  was  growing 
fast  and  furious.  J.,  who  from  the  first  had 
objected  to  the  expedition,  backed  up  by  Vin- 
cenzo, now  declared  that  it  was  impossible  for 
me  to  stay  longer.  An  unwilling  Cinderella,  I 
was  torn  away  on  the  stroke  of  twelve.  "  It  is 
not  a  seemly  revel,"  1  was  told  ;  "  dreadful  things 

213 


ROMA  BEATA 

happen,  respectable  people  do  not  stay  after  mid- 
night." To  me  it  was  all  a  wonderftd  revelation  ; 
I  was  in  pagan  Rome,  where  Bacchus  and  Vesta 
were  worshipped,  where  Italy's  spoiled  children, 
the  Roman  populace,  took  their  pleasure,  as  they 
have  done  with  little  change  ever  since  Rome 
was,  since  "  step  bread  "  was  distributed  gratis  on 
the  steps  of  the  Capitol,  and  the  costly  games  of 
the  Colosseum  kept  them  amused  and  pacific  ! 

Till  broad  daylight  1  heard  the  people  coming 
home  ringing  their  little  terra-cotta  bells,  singing 
snatches  of  the  song  of  the  evening :  "  Sei  la  Rosa 
piu  bella  che  cV."  As  I  look  back  at  that  riot  of 
youth  and  age,  where  the  faces  of  faun  and  satyr 
leered  at  nymph  and  dryad,  the  whole  pagan 
scene  is  sweetened  and  purified  by  that  vision  of 
the  Holy  Family. 


214 


ISCHIA 

Casamicciola,  Islawd  op  Ischia,  July  10,  1899. 

Our  coming  to  this  volcanic  islet  —  tossed  up 
out  of  the  sea  an  aeon  ago,  still  warm  with  the 
earth's  vital  heat  —  was  due  to  chance,  hke  most 
things  that  are  worth  while.  We  had  driven 
over  that  morning  from  Sorrento  to  Castellamare 
through  odorous  orange  and  lemon  groves,  and 
were  so  filled  with  the  beauty  of  land  and  sea, 
that  going  to  any  city,  even  to  our  Rome,  seemed 
a  waste  of  life.  We  reluctantly  boarded  the 
crowded  train  for  Naples.  In  the  same  carriage 
were  a  mercante  di  campagna  and  his  daughter, 
the  most  lovely  ItaUan  girl  I  ever  saw.  Her  hair 
clustered  in  purple  shadowed  masses  like  bunches 
of  grapes  about  her  perfect  face  ;  her  complexion 
was  golden  and  red  —  no  pink  and  white  pretti- 
ness,  but  a  rich  and  memorable  beauty.  They 
had  left  home  early ;  to  have  more  time  in  the 
city,  they  partook  of  their  breakfast,  Bologna 
sausage,  bread,   garlic,  and   wine   on  the  train. 

215 


HOMA  BEATA 

They  were  so  friendly  that  we  forgave  them  every- 
thing—  even  their  fourteen  bundles  which  en- 
tirely filled  the  luggage  rack  —  even  their  garlic  I 
The  father  opened  the  conversation. 

"  My  son,  he  is  in  America ;  he  worked  on  the 
Brooklyner  Bridger.     You  have  seen  it,  yes  ? " 

"  We  have  seen  it  many  times,  we  have  even 
crossed  it." 

This  brought  us  all  very  near  together.  Put- 
ting his  hand  into  his  pocket  the  mercante  di 
campagna  brought  out  a  fistful  of  rice,  which  he 
presented  to  me. 

"  Behold  a  sample  of  the  rice  I  am  taking  to 
Naples  to  sell." 

Not  knowing  exactly  what  else  to  do  with  it, 
I  tied  the  rice  in  a  corner  of  my  pocket  hand- 
kerchief. He  next  handed  me  the  Corriere 
di  NapoU^  two  days  old.  The  first  thing  in  the 
newspaper  that  caught  my  eye  was  an  advertise- 
ment of  the  Sodeta  Napoletana  di  Navigazione 
a  Vapore.  "The  steamer  for  Ischia  sails  at 
eleven  o'clock  ;  return  tickets  eight  francs." 

We  were  due  in  Naples  at  ten,  the  train  for 
Rome  left  at  three  !  Five  hours  in  Naples,  which 
has  for  us  but  three  resources :  the  museum,  the 
aquarium,   the    antiquarians !     It   was  the   day 

216 


Jsckia 

From  a  photoKrapli 


I  tied 


a  ui  ncLy  wiiicti  i. 


\e.  r\op.  J  iirii  itik 


e  to  do  with  i 
T  of  my  pocket  hand 
t   haadtKl    me   the   Cor 


11         '■I'l.  .    n^i-  J.1, 


tschia    sails  a 

francs." 
ii,  the  train  for 


r 


ISCHIA 

of  Sts.  Peter  and  Paul,  a  national  holiday  —  that 
meant  the  museum  would  be  closed ;  we  know 
every  fish  in  the  great  aquarium,  the  finest  in 
the  world.  Do  we  not  always  go  there  ?  did  we 
not  spend  two  hours  there  on  our  way  down,  pay 
to  see  the  awful  octopus  fed,  and  to  receive  a 
shock  from  the  electric  fish  ?  A  visit  to  the 
antiquarians  for  some  varieties  of  junk  even 
more  enticing  than  our  Roman  haunts  would 
cost  us  more  than  eight  francs. 

Ischia  !  The  name  set  vibrating  a  deep  chord 
of  memory.  O  Edward  Lear,  Edward  Lear, 
you  are  responsible  for  many  vagarious  wander- 
ings I  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  picture 
in  the  Nonsense  Book  of  the  old  person  of  Ischia. 
Is  he  still  growing  friskier  and  friskier  ?  still  danc- 
ing jigs,  eating  figs? 

"  Have  you  ever  been  to  Ischia  ? "  I  asked  the 
mercante  di  campagna. 

"  Frankly,  the  sea  incommodes  me  too  much 
to  make  the  voyage ;  but  I  have  a  brother  who 
drives  a  cab  at  Casamicciola.  The  signori  should 
not  fail  to  visit  the  island,"  he  said. 

The  girl  smiled  encouragement.  "  This  is  just 
the  season  for  the  baths,"  she  said ;  "  they  are 
miraculous  for  rheumatism,  gout,  every  kind  of 

217 


ROMA   BEATA 

lameness.  When  they  went  there  OHvetta,  the 
wife  of  my  uncle  Ercole,  could  not  walk  at  all 
—  adesso,  corre  corrCun  diavolo  (now  she  runs  hke 
a  devil)." 

^^Pur  troppo  (Altogether  too  much)!"  grum- 
bled the  mercante,  just  like  any  other  brother- 
in-law. 

"  The  signori  will  employ  my  uncle  Ercole  ? 
he  drives  a  piebald  horse.  They  will  give  the 
uncle  and  aunt  tanti  saluti  from  me  ?  "  the 
beauty  persisted. 

Her  influence,  combined  with  Edward  Lear's, 
was  too  strong  to  resist.  Rome  is  always  there  ; 
it  was  now  or  never  for  Ischia ! 

We  caught  the  little  steamer  which  carried  us 
steadily  enough  across  the  Bay  of  Naples.  The 
shores  were  a  living  panorama  done  in  sapphire 
and  emerald.  Fishing  smacks  with  slanting  la- 
teen sails  colored,  discolored,  one  with  a  picture 
of  Maria  Stella  del  Mare  painted  upon  it,  flitted 
by  us  before  the  light  breeze.  The  steamer  had 
once  been  a  private  yacht ;  though  her  brasses  are 
neglected  and  her  deck  less  like  polished  satin 
than  it  must  have  been  in  her  palmy  days,  she 
still  has  a  sporting,  rakish  air,  in  keeping  with  our 
escapade.     We  passed  Procida,  a  shining  isle  of 

218 


.     ISCHIA 

beauty,  where  I  was  half  tempted  to  land  and 
search  for  the  enchanted  princess  who  must 
inhabit  it ! 

We  landed  at  Casamicciola  in  a  small  boat. 
The  patient  women  waiting  on  the  quay  took 
our  trunks  on  their  heads,  the  cabmen  mobbed 
us  politely,  trying  to  wrest  our  hand-bags  from  us. 

"  Ercole  ! "  cried  J.  "  Is  Ercole,  he  who  drives 
a  piebald  horse,  among  you  ?  " 

"  Ecco  mi  qua,  Signor  Marchese  (Behold 
me  here.  Lord  Marquis)  I "  Ercole  (Hercules) 
scarcely  looks  his  part.  He  is  small  and  wizened, 
but  he  has  the  merry  eyes  of  his  brother,  the  vier- 
cante  di  campagna,  while  his  laugh  oddly  recalls  his 
lovely  niece's.  From  the  beginning  Ercole  took 
and  still  keeps  possession  of  us.  "  First  to  the 
Piccola  Sentinella,"  he  announced.  The  piebald 
breasted  the  steep  hiU  at  a  sharp  pace.  Ten 
minutes'  climb  brought  us  to  the  Hotel  of  the 
Small  Sentinel,  a  low  building  with  a  roof  of 
light  corrugated  iron.  Most  of  the  hotels  in 
southern  Italy  are  old  palaces  or  monasteries, 
heavily  built  of  stone  or  stucco.  Madam  Dombr^, 
the  proprietress  (she  is  an  Englishwoman  and 
makes  us  exceedingly  comfortable),  says  that  all 
the  buildings  put  up  on  the   island   since  the 

219 


ROMA  BEATA 

earthquake  have  been  constructed  under  govern- 
ment supervision  and  are  Hghtly  built  like  the 
hotel.  Everything  here  dates  from  the  earth- 
quake. Ercole  says  such  a  thing  took  place 
before  the  terremoto,  or  so  many  years  after  it. 
Mme.  Dombre,  whose  daughter  was  killed  by  it, 
speaks  as  if  it  happened  yesterday. 

"  There  was  a  concert  in  the  dining-room  of 
our  hotel  at  the  time,  it  was  on  the  28th  of  July, 
1883,  mid-season,  you  know  ;  the  house  was  full. 
There  came  a  dreadful  rumbling  noise.  The 
house  shook  once,  twice,  sideways,  and  then 
came  crashing  down  in  a  ruined  heap.  The 
pianist  at  the  piano,  the  singer  with  the  song  on 
her  lips,  were  dashed  into  Purgatory  without  an 
instant's  warning !  Out  of  a  population  of 
thirty-five  hundred,  seventeen  hundred  of  our 
people  perished  in  the  earthquake." 

Since  that  time  Casamicciola  has  been  almost 
deserted  by  foreigners  who  are  now  only  just 
beginning  to  return ;  a  few  more  come  each 
year. 

The  morning  after  our  arrival  Ercole  drove  me 
willy-nilly  to  the  stabilimento ,  as  they  call  the 
baths.  Somehow  he  had  divined  the  heel  of 
Achilles,  —  my    bicycle     ankle.      The    smihng 

220 


ISCHIA 

medico  agreed  with  him  that  the  treatment 
was  "indicated,"  and  forthwith  deUvered  me 
over  into  the  hands  of  Olivetta  —  she  who 
once  was  lame  and  now  runs  Hke  a  devil.  The 
baths  are  large,  not  so  smartly  appointed  as 
some  of  the  German  establishments,  such  as 
Homburg  or  Ems,  yet  they  have  a  certain  classical 
flavor  of  architecture,  pleasantly  suggestive  of 
the  old  Greek  inhabitants  who  were  driven  away 
from  the  island  (they  called  it  Pithecusa)  in  the 
fifth  century  B.C.  by  the  fearful  eruptions  of 
Mt.  Epomeo.  Olivetta  led  me  to  a  small  marble 
room,  put  me  in  a  comfortable  chair,  placed  the 
offending  ankle  on  a  bench,  and  bade  me  "  abbia 
pazienza  (have  patience),"  while  she  went  to  get 
the  ''fango."  In  five  minutes  she  returned, 
bringing  a  jar  full  of  liquid  gray  clay  very  like 
what  sculptors  use. 

"  GuarcU,  questofango  xneneproprio  caldo  dalle 
viscere  della  terra  (Observe,  this  mud  comes  hot 
from  the  entrails  of  the  earth)."  The  giant 
Typhoeus,  transfixed  by  Zeus's  thunderbolt,  hes 
chained  under  the  island ;  the  roar  of  the  earth- 
quake is  his  voice,  the  lava  flood  his  tears.  You 
nfiay  beheve  it  or  not :  I  do  not  find  it  difficult 
to  accept.     Poor  old  giant,  I  feel  sorry  for  him, 

2S1 


ROMA   BEATA 

reduced  to  tending  hospital  fires,  to  warming 
up  poultices  for  the  gouty  ! 

Olivetta  built  a  sort  of  mould  of  hot  clay 
wherein  the  foot  was  comfortably  coddled  for 
thirty  minutes.  She  next  gave  it  a  hot  douche 
for  five  minutes,  then  left  me  to  meditate  for 
another  thirty  minutes  in  a  warm  mineral  bath 
which  smelt  of  hot  flat-irons. 

The  serious  business  of  the  day  over,  we  were 
free  to  explore  the  country.  Ercole  and  the 
piebald  took  us  for  a  nineteen-mile  drive  around 
the  island,  which  rises  sharply  from  the  sea  to  its 
highest  point,  Mt.  Epomeo.  The  vineyards 
wrap  Ischia  from  seashore  to  mountain  peak 
in  a  shimmering  screen  of  green.  The  vines  hang 
from  tree  to  tree,  making  a  leafy  roof  over- 
head and  green  sun- pierced  walls  to  the  long 
alleys,  where  innumerable  classic  bunches  are 
slowly  ripening.  The  grapes  are  still  small  and 
immature,  but  exquisite  in  form  and  color.  In 
October,  the  season  of  the  vintage,  this  must  be 
the  most  beautiful  place  on  earth.  Here  one 
understands  why  the  Roman  soldiers  in  Britain, 
when  they  first  saw  the  Kentish  hop  vines, 
thought  they  had  found  the  nearest  thing  to  the 
grape  that  savage  northland  produced.     In  their 

222 


ISCHIA 

efforts  to  make  wine  from  hops  they  produced 
the  first  beer  made  in  England. 

On  our  way  home  we  met  a  pair  of  boys 
driving  a  donkey  laden  with  the  coarse  gray 
pottery  which  has  been  made  here  since  the 
days  of  the  Romans.  The  creta  (gray  clay)  from 
which  it  is  made,  looks  very  like  the  mud  used 
at  the  stabilimento.  We  stopped  to  examine 
the  mugs,  the  jugs,  the  donkey,  and  his  aston- 
ishing garments. 

"  Behold,  Madama,  Vasino  del  colonello  !  "  said 
Ercole. 

"  Who  is  the  colonel  ?  " 

"  Un  gran  signore,  un  Inglese.  He  comes 
here  every  year  for  the  baths." 

"What  can  a  gran  signore  do  with  this 
poor  little  animal  ? " 

"  He  protects  it.  When  he  first  saw  this 
donkey,  the  poor  beast  being  much  afflicted  with 
sores,  was  sadly  tormented  by  flies.  The  colo- 
nello taking  pity  upon  it  provided  pantaloons  — 
two  pair  ;  a  pair  for  the  hind  legs,  a  pair  for  the 
fore  legs,  as  you  perceive.  He  also  pays  the  boys 
two  francs  a  month  to  treat  the  creature  well ; 
he  provides  petroleum  to  bathe  its  sores,  and 
now  and   again  orders  it  a  sea  bath.     It  is  his 

223 


ROMA  BEATA 

idea.  He  may  be  right.  How  do  1  know  ? 
With  respect,  the  soul  of  his  grandmother  may 
have  entered  the  body  of  that  ass." 

A  httle  further  on  Ercole  drew  up  the  piebald 
again. 

*'  Behold  other  of  the  colonellos  beneficiaries," 
he  said.  Two  tiny  dwarfs  saluted  us,  asking 
with  Ischian  gentleness  for  alms.  There  was 
no  whine  to  their  voices,  no  consciousness  of 
degradation,  nothing  of  that  brazen  effrontery 
of  the  Neapolitan  beggar,  which  makes  one 
despair  of  the  regeneration  of  the  Neapolitan 
"  submerged  tenth  "  ! 

^^  Sono  buoni  ed  onesti  (They  are  good  and 
honest),"  said  Ercole,  adding  a  soldo  from  his  own 
pocket  to  what  J.  gave  them. 

"  They  are  called  Pasquale  and  Restituta.  It 
is  only  a  few  years  that  they  have  been  obliged 
to  beg.  They  worked  at  their  trades  —  he  at 
brick  making,  she  at  straw  braiding ;  they  are 
past  working  now.  They  are  not  very  old,  but 
such  people  have  little  vigor.  I  remember  their 
wedding.  All  the  town  was  there,  the  sindaco 
and  the  schoolmaster  as  well.  We  all  gave 
something  for  their  housekeeping,  one  a  goat, 
one  a  pair  of  fowls,  one  a  piece  of  furniture.     If 

224 


ISCHIA 

you  could  have  seen  their  little  marriage-bed, 
Signora  mia,  it  was  Hke  a  doll's  bed." 

We  drove  along  for  another  mile  or  two, 
passed  the  straw  factory,  where  we  were  obUged 
to  buy  some  ugly  fans,  out  of  respect  to  Ercole's 
views.  On  the  Marina  he  stopped  again  to  let 
us  see  "  //  Fungo^'  a  big  mushroom-shaped  rock 
in  the  sea.  The  setting  sun  touched  Procida 
into  an  unearthly  beauty,  it  shone  hke  the  golden 
city  of  Jerusalem. 

"  There  is  Teodora  !  "  said  Ercole,  pointing 
with  his  whip  to  a  group  of  sailors  sitting  on 
the  bottom  of  an  overturned  boat.  In  their 
midst  sat  a  strange  figure  mending  a  net. 

"  You  see  that  old  woman  sewing  ?  She  is  a 
deaf-mute,  and  she  believes  that  she  is  a  man.  If 
it  were  true  it  would  be  miraculous,  jo<?rc/i^'  hafatto 
una  figlia  (because  she  has  "  made  "  a  daughter). 
She  avoids  all  women,  spends  all  her  time  with 
the  fishermen.  As  she  cannot  talk  and  mends 
their  nets  for  them  —  they  do  not  object." 

Teodora  laid  down  the  long  black  cigar  she 
was  smoking  and  took  off  her  hat  to  us.  Save 
for  a  short  dark  skirt  she  was  dressed  like  a  man. 

*'  It  is  against  the  law  for  a  woman  to  wear 
pantaloons,"  Ercole  explained. 

15  225 


ROMA  BEATA 

"  But  not  for  asses  or  men  ? " 

Ercole  laughed  immoderately  —  part  of  his 
pleasant  flattery. 

We  made  the  ascent  of  Mt.  Epomeo ;  after 
completing  the  course  of  eleven  baths,  we 
wished  to  put  to  the  test  what  they  had  done 
for  me.  We  drove  to  Fontana,  taking  our 
luncheon  with  us  —  why  do  things  taste  best 
out  of  a  basket  ?  We  left  Ercole  and  the  pie- 
bald at  the  inn  and  climbed  to  the  summit  of 
the  extinct  volcano  where  there  is  a  curious 
hermitage  dedicated  to  St.  Nicola  cut  out  of  the 
volcanic  tufa  rock.  The  view  from  here  is  not 
so  fine  as  it  is  half  way  up  the  mountain.  It  is 
rather  too  much  like  looking  down  upon  a  dis- 
sected map,  but  it  does  give  one  a  wonderful 
geographical  sensation,  fixes  the  relations  be- 
tween the  Sorrentine  peninsula,  Vesuvius,  the 
islands  of  the  Sirens,  Capri,  the  promontory  of 
Circeo  (where  Circe  lived),  Procida  the  golden, 
and  the  other  points  of  this  earthly  paradise, 
between  Terracina  on  the  north  and  the  Punta 
di  Campanella  on  the  south.  We  were  helped 
to  orient  ourselves  by  Lucia,  a  "  lady  guide," 
who  joined  us  half  way  up  the  mountain.  She 
is  a  handsome  old  woman  with  wild  white  hair, 

226 


ISCHIA 

bright  blue  eyes,  and  a  shrewd  peasant  face. 
She  hailed  me  at  sight  as  an  American. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  am  not  English  ?  '* 
I  asked. 

"  I  can  always  recognize  the  Americani,  Si- 
gnora  mia" 

"  By  what  sign  do  you  know  us  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  By  the  expression  of  the  countenance." 

When  I  first  came  to  Italy  I  should  have 
scoffed  at  this  ;  now  I  have  lived  away  from  home 
so  long  that  I  too  recognize  the  American  ex- 
pression, —  nervous,  sensitive,  masterful,  —  the 
Look  Dominant ! 

"  Si  vede  Procida,  La  Spagna^  io  veggio  a  te  !  " 
Lucia  crooned  a  stave  of  the  old  Neapohtan 
song,  Funiculi  Funicula,  in  a  cracked  voice. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  both  Americani  ed  Inglesi  ; 
my  daughter's  husband  is  an  Inglese." 

"  Where  did  she  meet  him  ? " 

"  Here  on  Mt.  Epomeo,  where  else  ?  Una 
hclla  ragazza  (She  was  a  pretty  girl)  !  You  may 
not  believe  it,  Signori,  but  there  is  no  difference 
between  my  daughter  and  me  save  a  matter  of 
fifteen  years.  At  fifty  she  is  just  what  I  was,  — 
at  sixteen  she  was  her  mother  over  again.  You 
would  not  think  it,  eh  ?    Well,  one  can  speak 

227 


ROMA  BEATA 

about  it,  now  that  one  is  so  old.  She  was  called 
the  most  beautiful  girl  in  all  Ischia.  How  do  I 
know  if  it  was  true  ?  I  could  not  think  so,  you 
see,  because  she  was  myself  over  again,  and  I 
never  saw  any  difference  between  myself  and  the 
other  girls." 

"  I  hope  your  daughter  has  a  good  husband." 

"  Grrazie  a  Dio,  a  good  husband,  yes,  yes,  a 
good  husband." 

"  Who  was  that  pretty  girl  at  the  inn  down  at 
Fontana  ?  "  J.  asked. 

^^ Bella?  quella  ragazza?  faccia  di  patate 
(Pretty  ?  that  girl  ?  a  potato  face)  I  Ai !  if  you 
could  have  seen  my  Eva  I  The  Madonna  her- 
self was  not  more  beautiful.  That  girl,  the  inn- 
keeper's daughter,  is  as  awkward  as  a  cow,  and  she 
squints  besides,  as  her  mother  did  before  her." 

"  iVb,  no,''  J.  protested  ;  "  e  un  beV  pezzo  di 
donna  (she  is  a  fine  piece  of  a  woman)." 

Lucia  gave  him  a  keen  look.  "  The  signore 
should  not  laugh  at  the  poor  girl.  //  huon  Dio 
does  not  give  a  handsome  face  to  every  woman." 

"  Fortunately,  for  the  peace  of  the  world,  that 
is  true." 

"  But  the  signore  is  an  artist  ?  one  sees  that 
from  his  manner  of  looking  at  things.     Well,  if 

228 


ISCHIA 

the  innkeeper's  Anna  is  a  pretty  girl,  call  me  a 
bruttona{hig  ugly  thing).  If  my  daughter  had 
not  been  out  of  the  common,  do  you  think  a  rich 
gentleman  would  have  married  her  ?  Yes,  yes, 
I  am  telhng  you  the  truth.  She  does  no  work, 
they  live  in  a  palazzo,  my  daughter  has  servants 
to  wait  on  her,  do  you  believe  it  ?  she  does  not 
even  comb  her  own  hair  !  And  she  has  jewels, 
such  diamonds  I  For  every  child  she  gives  him, 
he  gives  her  a  great  pearl,  each  bigger  than  the 
last." 

"  How  many  children  have  they  ?  " 

"  Ha  fatto  quattro  maschi  e  tre  femmine  (She 
has  borne  four  males  and  three  females),  all 
straight  and  well  formed.  The  youngest  is  Lucia, 
for  the  poor  old  nonna  (grandmother)  at  Ischia." 

"  Where  do  they  live  ? " 

She  pointed  across  the  sea.  "  What  do  I  know 
of  foreign  countries  ?  I  am  of  the  island.  Here 
1  was  born,  here  I  shall  die." 

"  You  must  be  very  proud  of  your  grand- 
children."    This  is  alwayis  a  safe  remark. 

"  Ha  ragione,  eccellenza^  guardi  (You  are 
right,  excellency,  observe),  I  am  only  a  poor  igno- 
rantCy  but  I  made  the  great  matrimomo  for  my 
daughter.     Eva  was  always  here  with  me,  upon 

229 


ROMA  BE  ATA 

the  flanks  of  Epomeo,  guiding  the  foreigners,  but 
for  me  she  would  be  here  still,  as  my  mother  and 
her  mother  before  her  were  here.  In  those  days 
before  the  terremoto  many  strangers  came  to 
Epomeo.  From  the  first  moment  the  young  In- 
glese  saw  the  girl  he  was  innamorato.  He  came 
every  day,  he  pretended  to  sketch  the  mountain. 
1  knew  he  was  no  artist ;  why,  any  one  could  see 
he  was  un  gran  signore  by  the  way  he  spent  his 
money.  One  day  he  asked  leave  to  paint  my 
daughter.  I  said, '  Scuse^  Signore,  you  are  a  rich 
gentleman,  I  am  only  a  beggar,  ma  io  sono  pa- 
drona  delta  miajiglivola  (I  am  the  mistress  of  my 
little  daughter).  The  day  Eva  takes  a  husband 
he  will  ht  padrone  ;  till  that  time,  scusi,  Signore, 
ma  sono  padrona  io  ! '  Would  you  believe  it  ? 
a  week  from  that  day  Eva  and  the  Inglese  were 
married  by  the  priest  who  married  her  father 
and  mother  and  who  gave  her  the  holy  rite  of 
baptism." 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  wisdom  of  old  women ! 

I  was  bent  upon  exploring  the  hermitage,  in 
spite  of  Lucia.  The  hermit  has  departed  the 
way  of  hermits  and  others.  In  his  stead  reigns 
Orlando,  a  cross  old  man,  between  whom  and 
Lucia  there  is  war  to  the  knife. 

230 


ISCHIA 

"  Their  excellencies  are  not  going  down  with- 
out seeing  the  hermitage  ? "  he  whined. 

"  Certainly  not,"  J.  assured  him. 

"  Do  not  go  in  ;  it  is  a  dirty  hole,  and  there  is 
nothing  to  see,"  whispered  Lucia,  catching  me 
by  the  sleeve. 

"  That  silly  old  woman  is  tiring  out  the  lady," 
said  Orlando  to  J. ;  "  drive  her  away,  she  is  a  pest." 
As  I  put  my  foot  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  rough- 
hewn  rock  stairway  leading  to  the  hermitage, 
Lucia  fell  back  and  said  no  more.  I  was  evi- 
dently out  of  her  domain  and  in  the  enemy's  ter- 
ritory. As  she  had  said,  there  was  little  to  see 
in  the  two  rooms  cut  out  of  the  living  rock. 
Orlando's  bed,  a  pile  of  straw,  occupied  the  outer 
room,  the  inner  cell  served  as  his  kitchen  and 
larder.  He  offered  bread  and  wine ;  we  were 
firm  in  refusing  refreshment ;  his  feelings  were 
soothed  by  a  mancia,  and  by  telling  him  we 
should  come  again  and  take  his  photograph  (our 
kodak  had  been  forgotten). 

"  The  next  time  their  excellencies  come  they 
must  not  let  that  old  cldacchierone  (gossip)  hang 
on  to  them.  She  pesters  the  travellers  so  with 
her  talk  that  she  frightens  them  away.  Truly 
you  will  find  it  set  down  in  the  red  book  of  the 

231 


ROMA  BEATA 

strangers  (Baedeker)  that  a  guide  is  unnecessary, 
though  a  few  soldi  are  due  to  the  person  hving 
in  the  hermitage,  who  is  ready  and  able  to  ex- 
plain intelHgently  the  view  and  the  locality." 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps  Lucia  again  took  us 
in  charge,  after  an  exchange  of  malevolent  glances 
with  Orlando. 

"  Stregona  (Big  old  witch),"  Orlando  muttered. 

"JBirbacaione  (Big  rogue),"  mumbled  Lucia. 

She  came  down  with  us  as  far  as  the  cab. 

"  Addio,  eccellenza,  e  mille  grazie." 

'^  Addio,  Lucia,  and  thanks  to  you."  At 
the  turn  of  the  road  we  looked  back  and  saw 
the  strong,  bent  little  woman  leaning  against  the 
wall,  waiting  to  guide  the  next  forestieri  who 
might  turn  up. 

"Is  it  true  what  Lucia  tells  us  about  her 
daughter?"  I  asked  Ercole. 

"  Who  knows  ?  these  old  women  gossip  to 
amuse  strangers.  There  is  a  new  story  for  every 
day  in  the  week.  We  must  not  believe  every- 
thing that  we  hear." 

Was  Ercole  jealous,  too  ? 

The  next  time  I  saw  Olivetta  she  began  to 
chatter  about  Lucia. 

"  She  told  you  about  her  daughter  ?     Yes  ?     It 

232 


ISCHIA 

is  quite  true.  The  girl  caught  the  fancy  of  a  rich 
milord,  and  he  married  her.  One  thing  I  am 
sure  Lucia  did  not  tell  you.  Her  son-in-law  has 
bought  her  a  nice  cottage,  the  best  house  in  Fon- 
tana,  he  gives  her  a  handsome  income;  truly, 
Lucia  is  rich,  but  she  is  avaricious.  I  ask  you, 
does  she  not  look  like  a  beggar  ?  That  is  all  a 
comedy ;  she  has  good  clothes  and  shoes.  Truly, 
I  should  not  be  surprised  if,  when  she  dies,  we 
should  find  that  Lucia  is  the  richest  woman  in 
Ischia ;  it  is  a  shame  that  she  should  ask  money 
from  the  strangers." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  not  the  money  so  much  as  the 
occupation  Lucia  likes,"  I  suggested. 

^^  Ma  cJie,  she  is  robbing  others  who  would 
gladly  take  her  place.  There  is  the  excellent 
Orlando,  he  is  my  relation.  Poor  man,  he  is 
lame  and  cannot  work.  As  long  as  Lucia  re- 
mains there  is  no  chance  for  another  guide;  d  fina 
quella  donna  (she  is  a  sharp  one,  that  woman). 
Ask  the  colonello,  —  he  can  tell  you  all  about 
Lucia  and  her  daughter." 

The  colonelloy  protector  of  the  poor  and  pur- 
veyor of  pantaloons  to  suffering  donkeys,  is  at 
this  hotel.  He  is  a  delightful,  warm-blooded 
creature,  who  cannot  be  quite  comfortable  unless 

233 


ROMA  BEATA 

everybody  else  in  sight  —  even  an  ass  —  is  com- 
fortable too.  Like  the  others,  he  had  a  great 
deal  to  say  about  Lucia ;  of  all  the  personages 
we  have  met  —  the  place  is  full  of  personages  — 
she  seems  to  have  the  most  marked  character. 

"Gad,  sir,  the  old  woman  is  right,"  said  the 
colonel.  "The  day  she  goes  out  of  the  guide 
business  she  will  go  to  pieces.  Why  should  she 
give  up  her  job  because  her  daughter  has  married 
into  another  sphere  ?  I  'm  d — d  if  I  don't  like 
her  spirit ! " 

"What  is  the  daughter  hke  ? "  I  asked. 

"  She  is  a  good  sort,"  said  the  colonel. 
"  When  her  husband  took  her  to  his  mother's 
house,  what  do  you  suppose  they  did  with  her  ? 
sent  her  to  school,  had  her  taught  like  a  child. 
She  learned  many  things,  how  to  talk  small  talk, 
how  to  behave  at  table,  how  to  dress  and  all  the 
rest  of  it.  When  they  thought  she  had  learned 
enough  she  came  home  to  her  husband.  He 
gave  a  great  dinner  to  introduce  her  to  his  family 
—  oh,  they  all  acted  sensibly.  The  bride  be- 
haved very  nicely  and  quietly,  they  all  liked  her 
for  her  pretty  manners  (you  know  the  people 
hereabouts  have  excellent  manners,  better  than 
half  the   aristocracy  at  home,  I  tell  them)   as 

234 


ISCHIA 

well  as  for  her  remarkable  beauty  ;  she  must  have 
been  worth  seeing  in  those  days.  After  the  din- 
ner was  over  and  the  guests  had  left  the  dining- 
room,  the  husband  coming  back  for  something 
found  his  wife  going  round  the  table  collecting 
the  ends  of  the  cigars  the  men  had  left  on  their 
plates. 

"  '  What  on  earth  do  you  want  with  those  nasty 
things  ? '  he  asked. 

"  *  I  shall  send  them  to  my  poor  old  father  at 
Ischia  I ' 

"  She  had  been  in  the  habit  of  picking  up  the 
ends  of  the  travellers'  cigars  for  the  old  man. 
Do  you  wonder  that  she  has  made  a  good  wife 
and  mother  ?  I  tell  you  she  has  a  good  heart ; 
if  a  woman  has  that,  what  else  matters  ? " 

When  we  made  our  second  trip  to  Epomeo  to 
keep  faith  with  Orlando,  Lucia  was  nowhere 
visible ;  we  made  the  ascent  without  her.  Or- 
lando held  undisputed  possession  of  Epomeo. 

"  Where  is  your  friend  Li^^ia  ? "  we  asked. 

He  fairly  spluttered,  "  Una  vecchiarella  stupida 
senza  educazione  (A  stupid  old  woman  without 
education)  I  Do  you  know  what  I  believe  ?  I 
believe  that  her  daughter  and  son-in-law  are  in 
Ischia.     When  they  are  on  the  island,  Lucia  sits 

235 


ROMA  BEATA 

all  day  at  her  window  dressed  in  her  Sunday 
clothes.  To  see  her  you  would  never  fancy  that 
she  was  the  guide  to  Mt.  Epomeo  —  not  that 
there  is  any  need  of  a  guide,  as  you  yourselves 
perceive." 

On  our  way  through  Fontana  we  passed  a  neat 
cottage,  caught  a  whiff  of  fragrance  of  oleanders 
in  the  garden,  a  glimpse  of  an  old  woman  sitting 
bolt  upright  in  an  armchair,  a  flash  from  her 
sharp  blue  eyes.  It  was  Lucia,  our  little  old 
guide,  her  wild  hair  neatly  coifed  by  a  peasant 
cap  ;  she  sat  up  as  if  she  were  sitting  for  her  pho- 
tograph, stiff",  uncomfortable,  wretched  in  her 
finery. 

That  night  at  the  hotel  an  interesting  couple 
who  had  arrived  since  the  morning  sat  opposite 
to  us  at  dinner  ;  a  tall,  silent  man  who  looked  as 
if  he  might  have  been  in  the  army,  and  a  grave, 
handsome  woman  of  fifty.  She  has  a  certain 
noble  amplitude  of  brow,  a  width  between  the 
eyes,  a  calm  quality  of  face  and  figure,  very 
restful  in  contrast  to  certain  giddy  young  ladies 
of  her  age  who  enhven  the  table  d'hote.  She 
speaks  Enghsh  with  a  slight  accent.  We  made 
acquaintance  over  the  mustard,  which  we  both 
prefer  a  TAnglaise.     The  gentleman  spoke  of  Is- 

236 


ISCHIA 

chia  and  the  neighboring  parts  of  the  country 
with  such  familiarity  that  I  asked  him  about  my 
enchanted  island,  Procida. 

"  It  is  such  an  ideal  looking  place  that  it  ought 
only  to  be  inhabited  by  beautiful  rose-colored 
maidens,"  I  said. 

He  looked  at  his  wife  as  he  answered  me. 

"  Ischia  is  the  island  for  handsome  women," 
he  said.  "  Procida  is  best  seen  as  you  have  seen 
it,  from  a  distance.  It  is  the  place  where  the 
Italian  convicts  are  sent." 

Was  not  that  a  sad  pricking  of  a  rainbow  bub- 
ble ?  His  next  words  atoned  for  that  shattered 
illusion  ;  they  were  addressed  to  his  wife. 

"  Eva,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  let  me  give  you  a 
little  of  this  vino  di  paese  (wine  of  the  country). 
It  comes  from  the  vigna  on  Mt.  Epomeo,  it  is 
the  kind  you  used  to  like  when  you  were  a  girl." 

At  the  name  Eva  I  looked  at  the  colonello, 
who  was  devouring  green  figs  at  the  end  of  the 
table.  He  answered  my  questioning  look  by 
one  of  acquiesence. 

Orlando  was  right  I  Lucia's  daughter  and 
the  husband  of  Lucia's  daughter  had  come  to 
Ischia  to  see  Lucia  ! 

"  May  I  trouble  you  to  hand  me  that  other  plate 

237 


ROMA   BEATA 

of  figs  ? "  said  the  cohnello.  "  The  figs  of  Ischia 
are  the  finest  in  the  world.  I  sometimes  wonder 
how  many  figs  a  man  may  eat  and  five." 

Suddenly  light  dawned  I  The  colonello  is  un- 
doubtedly the  "  Old  Person  of  Ischia."  On  the 
flanks  of  Epomeo  we  had  looked  for  him,  in  the 
sun-pierced  alleys  of  Ischian  vineyards,  among 
the  sailors  on  the  Marina,  even  in  the  halls  of 
the  stabilimento  —  our  quest,  the  magnet  that 
drew  us  out  of  the  path  of  duty  {that  led  back  to 
Rome  and  the  studio),  the  hero  of  Lear's  verse. 
He  was  here,  sleeping  under  the  same  roof  with 
us,  sitting  at  the  same  table  !  Have  not  we  our- 
selves seen  him  eat  scores,  possibly  hundreds  of 
'figs  ?  If  we  could  postpone  our  return  to  Rome 
we  should  doubtless  get  up  into  the  thousands, 
for,  — 

"  There  was  an  old  person  of  Ischia, 

Whose  conduct  grew  friskier  and  friskier. 
He  danced  hornpipes  and  jigs. 
And  ate  thousands  of  figs, 
This  Uvely  old  person  of  Ischia." 


238 


XI 

OLD  AND  NEW  ROME  —  PALESTRINA 

Palazzo  Rusncucci,  Rome,  1899. 

Sunday  afternoon  we  went  over  to  hear  ves- 
pers at  St.  Peter's  (the  music  was  Palestrina's). 
The  service  was  celebrated  in  the  gorgeous  Cap- 
pella  del  Coro.  It  must  have  been  some  especial 
festa,  for  the  chapel  was  even  more  magnificent 
than  usual,  the  priests  wore  extra  fine  flowered 
brocade  robes,  the  air  was  bluer  and  heavier  with 
incense,  there  were  more  candles.  The  slumbrous 
canons,  in  purple  gowns  and  gi'ay  squirrel-skin 
capes,  dozed  in  their  fretted  stalls.  Over  their 
heads,  in  the  carved  and  gilded  gallery,  stood 
the  choristers,  two  by  two,  each  pair  holding  be- 
tween them  a  quaint,  black-lettered  music  book  ; 
behind  the  choir  was  the  organ,  in  front,  the 
leader,  baton  in  hand.  They  all  wore  white  lace- 
trimmed  cottas  over  black  gowns.  Their  voices, 
dominated  by  the  piercing  sweetness  of  the  Pope's 
angel,  a  male  soprano,  filled  the  chapel  with  an 

239 


ROMA  BEATA 

almost  overpowering  melody,  that  flowed  through 
the  gilded  gates  and  floated  out  into  the  distant 
aisles  and  transepts  of  the  great  church. 

Wandering  about  after  service,  we  came  upon 
the  tomb  of  Palestrina,  in  the  transept  near  the 
chapel  where  his  magnificat  had  rung  out  so 
gloriously. 

"  The  Church  has  a  long  memory  for  its  saints, 
sinners,  and  master-workmen.  If  I  thought  it 
would  remember  me,  now,  I  would  take  the 
vows  to-morrow,"  somebody  said  in  my  ear.  It 
was  Patsy. 

"  Jolly  to  think,"  he  went  on,  "  of  the  old  boy 
who  led  that  choir  and  composed  that  music 
for  'em  —  he  died,  you  know,  in  1594,  —  lying 
here  within  the  smell  of  the  incense,  within  the 
sound  of  his  own  harmonics."  Patsy's  only  in- 
strument is  the  guitar. 

"  I  like  incense,"  he  went  on  ;  "  the  Roman 
populace  smells  no  sweeter  than  in  the  days 
Shakespeare  wrote  about  them ;  but  the  real 
value  of  incense,  of  course,  lies  in  its  being  a 
germ  destroyer,  a  safeguard  to  the  priest. 
In  the  old  days,  when  people  did  not  know  so 
much  about  health  as  they  do  now,  they  used  to 
come  to  church  to  give  thanks  for  recovery  from 

240 


OLD  AND  NEW  ROME 

smallpox  while  stiU  in  a  state  to  give  it  to 
others." 

Here  Helen  came  up.  We  had  scarcely  fin- 
ished asking  her  news  when  Mr.  Z joined  us. 

"Looking  at  the  tomb  of  Palestrina?"  he 
said.  "  That  reminds  me,  would  you  ladies  like 
to  go  and  see  the  town  from  which  he  took 
his  name  ?  It  is  an  opportunity,  the  greatest 
living  authority  on  polygonal  walls  is  going 
with  us." 

"  I  never  heard  of  a  polygonal  wall,"  Helen 
began.  ("You'd  not  give  a  hoot  to  see  one," 
murmured  Patsy.)  "But  I  would  go  anywhere 
for  a  day  in  the  country  this  divine  weather,  pro- 
vided the  company  was  good." 

"  And  the  luncheon,"  Patsy  p^ut  in. 

Mr.  Z smiled :    "I  think  the  ladies  may 

trust  me  for  that,"  he  said.  Then  he  gave  Helen 
and  me  directions  for  meeting  at  the  station  and 
left  us. 

"Z is  a  silly  old  gloat,  but  there  is  no 

malice  in  him,"  Patsy  said.  "  His  Antonio  is  the 
best  cook  in  Rome.  It  is  part  of  the  law  of 
compensation  that  the  biggest  bores  always  have 
the  best  chefs'' 

We  had  perfect  weather  for  the  trip  to  Pales- 

16  241 


ROMA  BEATA 

trina.  All  the  women,  like  Helen,  had  come 
for  the  day's  outing  in  the  country,  the  men  were 
grimly  intent  upon  polygonal  walls  —  all  but 
one  —  Patsy,  the  uninvited,  who  turned  up  at 
the  station  and  said  he  *'  would  go  along  to  have 
a  try  at  the  vino  di  paese  and  to  see  if  the  girls  of 
Palestrina  were  as  pretty  as  the  girls  of  Pras- 
neste."     As  we  did  not  feel  responsible  for  him 

(he  is  a  relation  of  the  Z 's)  we  were  thankful 

to  see  his  handsome  face.  Express  trains  do  not 
stop  at  Palestrina,  so  we  had  to  take  a  local, 
which  crawled.  One  does  not  mind  crawling 
across  the  Campagna,  in  sight  of  the  trees  and 
tombs  of  the  Via  Appia,  beside  the  long  lines  of 
brown  aqueducts,  broken  here  and  there  into 
picturesque  groups  of  arches.  As  we  approached 
the  Alban  hills  we  found  a  hazy  scarf  of  pink 
gauze  spread  about  their  feet  and  half  way  up 
to  their  knees ;  on  nearer  view  this  proved  to 
be  fruit  trees  in  blossom. 

At  the  dull  little  station  of  Monte  Compatri 
Colonna  there  was  a  delay.  Patsy,  in  search  of 
diversion,  tried  to  get  out  of  the  carriage.  The 
door  was  locked.  He  put  a  long  leg  out  of  the 
window  and  made  as  if  he  would  cHmb  out. 
Excitement  among  the  peasants  on  the  platform. 

242 


OLD  AND   NEW  ROME 

Everybody  talked  at  once.  Four  women  and 
three  men  rushed  to  the  window. 

"  Eccellenzay  for  charity's  sake,  have  patience  I 
The  door  is  capable  of  being  opened  !  "  urged  the 
vendor  oi  passu  tempi  (salted  melon  seeds). 

An  old  woman,  with  a  basket  of  assorted  fruits, 
threw  herself  passionately  in  the  breach. 

"  For  the  love  of  the  Madonna,  illustrissimo, 
have  a  care,  you  will  do  yourself  an  injury.  The 
door  opens,  T  assure  you  it  is  true.  That  ignorante 
of  a  guard.  Where  has  he  gone  ?  The  capo 
stazione  himself  should  interest  himself  in  your 
signoria." 

Patsy  put  out  his  head  and  one  arm.  The 
vendor  of  the  straw-covered  flasks  of  red  and 
white  wine  joined  the  group. 

"  This  is  a  serious  affair,  amid  miei,"  he  said. 
"  Signori,  restrain  the  gentleman  1  Between  our- 
selves now,  is  he  mad  ?  If  so,  my  brother,  who 
is  of  the  carabinieri,  can  easily  be  summoned." 

Patsy  by  this  time  had  got  one  shoulder  out 
and  was  frantically  waving  an  arm  and  a  leg. 
That  was  too  much  for  the  immemorial  beggar 
with  the  head  and  beard  of  Jove,  who  for  forty 
years  has  sat  upon  that  platform  and  begged. 
He  laid  down  his  tray  of  matches  and  hurried 

243 


KOMA  BEATA 

off  on  one  leg  and  a  crutch  to  the  office  of  the 
capo  stazione.  Meanwhile,  the  guard  came  out 
of  the  restaurant  furtively  wiping  his  moustache. 
He  rushed  at  the  carriage  with  his  key.  Only 
one  person  on  the  platform  had  maintained  his 
equilibrium,  —  the  waiter  from  the  restaurant,  a 
man  of  the  world,  continued  to  walk  calmly  up 
and  down  the  platform,  offering  his  atrocious 
chiccory  brew  —  he  called  it  coffee  —  to  the 
other  passengers.  He  rather  superciliously  let 
us  alone. 

The  guard  hurried  to  the  window.  "  I  asked 
the  signori  before  I  allowed  myself  to  attend  to 
my  duties  at  Colonna  if  any  of  the  illustrious 
ones  desired  to  descend.  You  yourself,  excellency, 
assured  me  you  desired  nothing  I "  He  fitted  the 
key  to  the  door  as  he  spoke.  v 

"  Behold,  did  I  not  speak  the  truth  ? "  said 
the  fruit  seller ;  "  am  I  not  right?  the  door  opens." 

Patsy  leaned  comfortably  back  in  the  cor- 
ner and  lighted  a  cigarette.  The  capo  stazione 
arrived,  hastily  buttoning  his  gold-laced  coat. 
He  looked  daggers  at  the  guard. 

"  What  is  wrong  ?  If  there  has  been  any  in- 
attention it  shall  be  reported.  How  is  this  ? 
One  of  the  travellers  obliged  to  get  out  of  the 

244 


OLD  AND  NEW  ROME 

window,  and  now  that  the  door  is  open  nobody 
alights  ? " 

"  That  gentleman,"  said  Patsy,  nodding  towards 

Mr.  Z ,  "  wished  to  see  if  he  could  climb  out 

of  the  window.  Do  not  trouble  yourselves,  he  is 
not  mad,  merely  an  original.  So  sorry  you  should 
Jiave  been  disturbed."     The  capo  bowed  politely 

to  Patsy,  fixed  poor  Z with  a  freezing  stare, 

and  returned  with  olympian  dignity  to  that  stuffy 
seat  of  authority,  his  office.  The  Jove-like  beg- 
gar, leaning  on  his  crutch,  in  his  curiosity  to  see 
us  forgot  to  beg. 

"  Un  fiasco  di  vino ! "  said  the  wine  seller, 
thrusting  a  flask  into  the  carriage. 

*^  PortugalU  ! ""  shrilled  the  old  fi-uit  woman. 

"  Caffe  due  soldi  la  tazza  (Coffee  two  cents  a 
cup)  1 "  cried  the  waiter. 

"  Pronti  (Ready)  I "  roared  the  guard. 

"  TarataraV"  screamed  the  station  master's  horn. 

"  Partenza  !  "  and  that  was  the  last  we  saw  of 
Monte  Compatri  Colonna. 

Between  Colonna  and  Palestrina  Patsy  allowed 
us  to  enjoy  the  view,  really  well  worth  seeing. 
We  had  enchanting  glimpses  of  the  Alban,  Sabine, 
and  Volscian  mountains ;  the  valleys  between 
blazed   with  wild-flowers.     At  the  station  the 

245 


ROMA  BEATA 

party  divided,  Mr.  Z ,  the  expert  on  polygonal 

walls,  and  the  rest  going  in  the  stage,  Patsy, 
Helen,  and  ourselves  crowding  into  a  botte. 

"  The  trouble  with  those  fellows  is, "  said 
Patsy,  "  that  they  know  too  much  of  one  thing 
and  too  little  of  anything  else.  You  'd  be  talked 
to  death  and  sick  of  the  subject  if  I  had  not 
come  along  to  save  your  lives." 

"  I  should  Hke  to  know  what  we  have  come  to 
see,"  I  feebly  protested. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Helen,  "  they  have  crammed 
it  all  out  of  books,  you  can  cram  a  great  deal 
better  afterwards.  It  takes  the  edge  off  to  read 
too  much  about  a  thing  before  you  see  it.  Don't 
read  the  guide-book  till  you  have  seen  the  thing 
and  got  your  own  impression  neat." 

The  road  from  the  station  leads  up  a  sharp  in- 
chne,  winding  through  the  steep  and  dirty  streets 
of  Palestrina,  a  hillside  town,  which  stands  upon 
the  ruins  of  the  Colonna's  mediaeval  stronghold, 
which  again  stands  upon  the  ancient  town  of 
Prasneste,  extolled  by  the  Latin  poets.  That 
Pr£eneste,with  its  magnificent  Temple  of  Fortune, 
the  resort  of  the  fashionable  Romans  of  the  days 
of  Maecenas,  seems  modern  compared  to  the 
ancient  Prseneste,  whose  ruins  are  found  beneath 

246 


OLD  AND  NEW  ROME 

it,  and  whose  arx  was  the  spot  chosen  for  the 
picnic  luncheon.  It  was  a  stiff  chmb.  We  left 
the  carriage  at  Castel  San  Pietro  and  scrambled 
to  the  summit  where  that  magnificent  and  in- 
domitable race  —  Castellane  calls  them  the  Itali- 
otti  —  built  their  citadel.  Here  we  saw  the  ruins 
of  the  polygonal  (we  used  to  call  them  cyclopean) 
walls.  Astonishing  structures,  making  the  walls 
of  the  three  later  periods  —  the  latest,  exquisite 
brick- work  of  the  Empire  —  seem  by  compari- 
son like  the  work  of  children  !  The  huge  rocks  are 
fitted  together  without  cement  of  any  sort,  and  in 
some  places  the  walls  look  as  soUd  as  the  day  they 
were  built,  long  before  Rome  was  I  To  make 
room  for  our  table-cloth,  an  old  shepherd  oblig- 
ingly drove  his  sheep  a  little  lower  down  the 
mountain.  He  was  knitting  stockings  for  one  of 
his  grandchildren  ;  he  has  four  to  bring  up.  Their 
mother  is  dead,  their  father  —  he  went  years  ago 
to  Buenos  Ayres  —  has  ceased  to  write  or  to 
send  them  money. 

A  pretty  girl  spinning  with  a  distaff  asked 
shyly  if  she  could  help  us.  Patsy  sent  her  for 
water  while  he  set  the  table. 

"We  could  not  have  her  handling  the  food, 
you  know,"  he  said ;  "  but  she  is  so  decorative 

247 


ROMA  BEATA 

that  we  want  to  look  at  her  while  we  eat  and 
drink.  Antonio  has  outdone  himself  (he  knew 
I  was  coming),  this  ham  really  has  been  boiled 
in  vino  di  Montefiascone,  as  I  suggested.  The 
girls  of  Palestrina  are  as  handsome  as  the  girls 
of  Prasneste."  Armida,  our  girl,  had  come  back, 
a  dripping  conca  poised  on  her  head. 

"  How  do  you  know  so  much  about  the  girls 
of  Prgeneste  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Go  to  the  Kircheriano  Museum  and  look  at 
the  Ficoronian  Cista  and  you  will  know  as 
much  as  I  do,"  Patsy  confessed.  "  It  was  found 
near  here  in  the  necropolis.  It  is  a  green  bronze 
toilet  casket,  with  the  most  corking  pictures 
from  the  story  of  the  Argonauts  engraved  upon 
it  you  ever  saw  I  Pollux  has  just  licked  Amycus, 
you  know,  for  interfering  with  the  Greeks  pre- 
empting the  spring  of  water,  and  tied  him  up 
to  a  tree,  as  he  deserved.  Then  you  have  the 
Greeks  drinking  out  of  the  spring.  In  the  harbor 
lies  the  good  ship  Argo ;  on  shore  you  see  Jason 
and  Hercules,  one  of  the  Argonauts  in  the 
attitude  of  boxing,  a  fat  old  Silenus  mimicking 
him.  Female  beauty  is  represented  by  Athena 
and  Nik^,  who  seem  to  be  offering  a  victor's 
crown  to  the  lucky  Pollux.     It's  up  to  date,  I 

248 


OLD   AND   NEW  ROME 

can  tell  you.  The  girls  are  no  prettier  than 
Armida  there  ;  but  find  me  the  man  who  can 
*do'  her  like  the  fellow  who  engraved  that 
Cista,  and  I  will  pay  him  to  make  her  portrait  I " 

"  How  long  ago  was  the  casket  made  ?  "  Helen 
asked. 

*'  If  you  must  have  a  date,  700  B.C.  is  as  good 
as  another.  Heigh  ho  I  The  world 's  grown 
lazy  1  All  this  talk  about  modem  energy 
makes  me  tired  I  Where 's  the  energy  in  any 
race  on  earth  to-day  to  build  an  arx  hke  this  ? 
to  live  on  the  top  of  a  steep  hill  like  this  ?  to 
trundle  itself  and  its  chattels  up  and  down  ? 
Our  civilization  compared  to  Praeneste's  is 
barbarism  by  every  standard  I  know." 

"You  don't  know  much,"  said  Helen.  "/ 
know  you  have  waited  too  long  for  your  luncheon. 
Your  views  will  improve  directly." 

As  we  ate  our  luncheon,  Armida  awkwardly 
weaving  a  garland  of  oak  leaves  after  a  pattern 
Patsy  made  her,  watched  us  with  shy,  hungry 
eyes.  She  and  I  exchanged  glances  (not  a  word 
was  spoken)  which  said,  — 

"  Signora,  I  have  rarely  tasted  white  bread  — 
never  such  a  pasticcio  as  the  signorino  is  giving 
to  the  shepherd's  dog  1 " 

249 


ROMA  BEATA 

"  Figlia  mia,  all  that  remains  of  the  feast  shall 
be  for  you  and  the  shepherd ;  you  will  divide 
with  him  ? " 

"  Stia  sicura  (Rest  assured)  I "  said  Armida's 
honest  eyes. 

There  was  wine  in  an  amphora  —  how  had 
Patsy  managed  it  ?  —  he  poured  the  first  glass  on 
the  ground  in  libation. 

Looking  at  Armida  and  raising  his  glass, 
"  Alle  belle  r agaze  di  Palestrina  !  "  he  said.  The 
shepherd's  dog  sniffed  the  spilt  wine  scornfully. 

"  Tutti  gU  Inglesi  sono  matti!  (The  English 
are  all  mad) ! "  muttered  the  shepherd. 

■*■  Palazzo  Rusncucci,  Rome,  1899. 

June  in  Italy  is  heaven.  The  weather  is 
delicious.  Life  is  pleasant  and  calm.  J.  has 
found  a  small  American  ice-chest,  the  only  one 
in  Rome  ;  we  are  as  proud  as  peacocks  about  it ; 
Pompilia  shows  it  off  as  if  it  were  the  great 
kohinoor.  It  is  an  economy  in  ice,  which  has 
only  lately  been  introduced,  and  is  fabulously 
dear.  Nena  fetches  a  tiny  slab  of  artificial  ice 
every  afternoon,  it  is  wrapped  in  thick  felt,  put 
into  the  American  ice-chest,  where  it  keeps  the 
milk  and  wine  cool.     Green  nuts  are  part  of  the 

250 


The  Lady  K. 

From  •  red  chalk  dnwing  in  the  Collection  of  Mr.  Thomas  W.  Lawaon 


:  feast  shidl 
and  tl  will  divide 


■nn 


rst  arlasts  on 

his    g 

1     The 
tpUl  wmc  scormijlly. 
no  matti!  (The  Enghsb 

d  the  sheikh  f7;rd. 

i^Aiwizzo  Rntrncvccr,  ttoiu:,  1899. 

'^he  weather  is 
jL!  jii   calm.     J.    has 

nil    '  lipvif    Uie  only  o''^' 

vs  aboui 
it  were  the  g 
it  IS  a?  ay  in  ice,  which   has 

itixxiuced,  and  is  fabuloi 
s  a  tiny  slab  of  artificial  ua 
"^  wrapped  in  tliick  felt,  pu1 
chest.  whtTe  it  keeps  the 
ire  part  of 


OLD  AND   NEW  ROME 

summer  bill  of  fare,  fresh  filberts  in  their  jackets, 
green  almonds  and  English  walnuts  as  much 
nicer  fresh  than  dried  as  fresh  figs  are  better 
than  dry,  or  grapes  than  raisins. 

Ignazio,  our  gardener,  handsome,  sympathetic, 
with  a  timid  laugh,  a  hesitating  manner,  a  real 
passion  for  his  calling,  was  recommended  to  us 
as  knowing  more  about  roses  than  any  man 
in  Rome.  The  burthen  of  caring  for  our  beloved 
flowers  had  become  too  great.  The  improvement 
since  the  expert  took  hold  and  properly  grafted 
our  roses  is  astonishing.  Ignazio  has  to  be  re- 
strained from  quite  ruining  us.  To  him  the 
natural  order  would  be  to  spend  the  greater 
part  of  one's  income  upon  one's  flowers  —  I  am 
not  so  sure  he  is  not  right !  For  weeks  he  has 
been  talking  about  a  new  rare  flower — just  the 
thing  for  the  terrace  —  whose  name  he  could  not 
remember.  When  I  asked  him  he  took  off  his 
old  cap,  rubbed  his  head  in  a  puzzled  way,  and 
complained  that  the  English  names  were  "  too 
difficult."  I  caught  his  enthusiasm,  ordered 
some  of  these  rare  exotics,  though  the  price 
was  high.  To-day  arrived  six  fine  specimens  of 
the  wild  American  purple  aster,  which  overruns 
the  fields  and  roadsides  at  home  I 

251 


ROMA  BEATA 

Signor  Giacomo  Boni,  the  architect  in  charge 
of  the  pubHc  buildings  of  ancient  Rome,  has  a 
rival  terrace  on  the  roof  of  his  house :  we  went 
to  see  his  Japanese  lilies  the  other  day.  Fancy, 
he  has  a  cherry  tree  with  ripe  cherries  on  it,  a 
peach  tree  with  peaches,  a  tame  starling  in  a 
cage,  and  quite  the  most  wonderful  collection  of 
plants  and  flowers  I  ever  saw  in  so  small  a  space. 
Signor  Boni  has  planted  on  the  Palatine,  in  the 
Forum,  and  in  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  the  flowers 
and  shrubs  mentioned  in  the  classics  as  growing 
in  those  places.  The  good  work  is  beginning  to 
tell  already ;  now  there  are  roses  and  fleur-de- 
lis  growing  in  the  Forum.  The  vandalism  which 
stripped  the  Colosseum  of  its  glorious  robe  of 
flowered  green  and  exposed  its  gaunt  skeleton  to 
view,  is  at  an  end,  but  the  havoc  it  wrought  is 
irreparable  —  at  least  in  my  lifetime.  Fancy, 
there  were  five  hundred  different  varieties  of 
wild-flowers  growing  on  that  splendid  old  ruin. 
Many  of  these  are  unknown  in  other  parts  of 
Europe  and  are  supposed  to  have  sprung  from 
seeds  that  were  mixed  in  the  various  kinds 
of  fodder  imported  from  Africa  to  feed  the 
wild  beasts  which  fought  in  the  old  blood- 
soaked  arena. 

352 


OLD  AND   NEW  ROME 

Palazzo  Rusncucci,  Rome,  August  3,  1899. 

It  was  too  hot  for  sleep  last  night,  a  rare  thing 
in  Rome.  At  half-past  four  this  morning,  when 
I  went  out  on  the  terrace  to  water  the  plants, 
the  smooth  red  tiles  were  still  warm  to  bare  feet. 
The  Piazza  of  St.  Peter's  was  a  sea  of  fog,  out  of 
which  loomed  the  lantern  of  Angelo's  dome  ;  no 
other  part  of  the  great  church  was  visible.  A 
white  mist  from  the  Tiber  rose  like  a  wall 
between  us  and  Mt.  Soracte ;  the  river  and 
the  mountain  Horace  loved  are  still  the  dearest 
things  in  the  wide  view  of  the  Roman  landscape. 
When  the  plants  had  been  watered  it  was  half- 
past  five,  just  the  right  time  for  bicycUng,  so  we 
set  out.  At  this  hour  few  people  are  about,  save 
the  drivers  of  the  heavy  wains  of  hay  —  drawn  by 
big,  soft-eyed  gray  oxen  with  magnificent  branch- 
ing horns.  These  wagons  of  fragrant  hay  are  not 
allowed  in  the  streets  after  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  Though  the  Forum  was  reached  be- 
fore '>ix,  Signor  Boni  and  his  aids  were  already 
hard  at  work.  Swarms  of  men,  like  so  many  busy 
ants,  were  passing  to  and  from  the  excavations, 
wheeling  barrows  full  of  earth,  returning  a  little 
later  with  empty  barrows. 

25S 


ROMA   BEATA 

"  Where  do  you  put  the  rubbish  that  you  take 
out  ?  "  I  asked.  The  capo  smiled  indulgently. 
"  Every  particle  of  the  earth  of  the  Forum  is  sa- 
cred," he  said.  *'  We  skim  it  off  carefully  in 
layers,  keeping  each  layer  quite  separate  from 
the  others.  Then  we  sift  it  layer  by  layer,  sort 
whatever  it  contains,  examine  each  bit  of  broken 
glass,  metal,  pottery,  and,  where  it  is  possible, 
piece  the  fragments  together." 

In  a  sacrificial  layer,  composed  chiefly  of 
the  ashes  and  bones  of  victims  offered  at  the 
altars  of  the  gods,  the  capo  lately  found  the 
jaw  bones  of  several  large  dogs.  These  did 
not  properly  belong  here,  among  the  bones  of 
beeves,  sheep,  and  goats,  the  regulation  sacrificial 
animals.  The  layer  in  which  they  were  found 
proved  to  be  of  the  time  of  Marcellus.  Now, 
what  were  the  bones  of  these  big  dogs  doing 
there  ? 

One  dark  night  —  it  was  in  the  days  of  Mar- 
cellus—  the  Goths  descended  for  the  first  time 
upon  Rome,  the  citadel  came  within  an  ace  of 
being  taken  —  would  have  been,  but  for  the 
cackling  of  the  silly  geese  which  roused  the  sleep- 
ing guards.  The  silly  geese  became  sacred  geese, 
and  the  faithless  watch-dogs,  who  had  failed  to 

254 


OLD  AND   NEW  ROME 

bark  and  give  the  alarm,  were  slaughtered  at  the 
altar,  —  and  that  is  how  the  big  canine  jaw  bones 
turn  up  to-day  in  the  sacrificial  layer  of  Marcel- 
lus  I  The  capo's  dreamy  blue  eyes,  the  eyes  of 
an  enthusiast,  glowed  with  an  inner  light  as  he 
unfolded  this  theory.  Imagination,  you  see,  is 
as  important  to  the  successful  archaeologist  as  it 
is  to  any  other  discoverer.  He  must  have  other 
things  as  well  —  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
classics,  for  instance.  Did  not  Mme.  Schlieman 
learn  the  whole  of  Homer  by  heart,  to  aid 
her  husband  in  his  search  for  the  tomb  of 
Agamemnon  ? 

If  in  reading  Tacitus  or  Livy  the  capo  finds 
mention  of  a  missing  building  or  statue,  he  goes 
and  looks  for  it  in  the  plac^  where  accord- 
ing to  the  historians  it  ought  to  be  —  and 
where,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  he  finds  it  I  While 
he  talked  to  us  his  eyes  never  left  the  skilful  hands 
of  a  work^aan  patiently  matching  together  pieces 
of  brown  terra-cotta  from  a  large  pile  of  shards. 

"  If  we  could  only  make  up  one  complete 
tile!"  he  sighed. 

We  were  in  the  temporary  museum  where  the 
latest  "  finds  "  of  the  Forum  are  kept.  The  man 
at  the  next  table  was  putting  together  a  really 

255 


ROMA  BEATA 

beautiful  vessel  of  dark-blue  glass.  It  might 
have  been  the  Myrrhene  goblet  of  Petronius  I 

"  The  tiles  are  so  ugly,  so  monotonous  —  why 
should  you  care  ?  I  could  understand,  now,  if  a 
piece  of  that  enchanting  blue  glass  were  miss- 
ing ! "  I  said. 

"  The  cup  is  only  a  cup,  —  beautiful  if  you  will, 
— but  what  does  it  teach  us  ?  nothing  new.  If  we 
could  find  a  whole  tile,  now,  it  would  fix  the  date 
of  a  building  we  are  in  doubt  about." 

Scientific  methods,  you  see ;  even  in  Rome  we 
cannot  escape  them  !  Then  we  went  and  looked 
at  the  spot  where  the  Jewish  citizens  of  Rome 
piously  burned  the  body  of  Julius  Caesar,  and 
at  what  remains  of  the  house  where  Cassar  Hved, 
a  corner  of  the  dining-room,  with  the  white  mo- 
saic pavement,  and  a  piece  of  wall  painted  with 
a  decoration  of  fruit,  flowers,  gieen  trees,  and  a 
pointed  bamboo  trellis,  in  the  same  style  as 
the  Villa  Livia,  built  by  the  widow  of  Augustus, 
who,  perhaps,  had  admired  Aunt  Calpurnia's 
dining-room,  and  when  her  time  came  to  build 
imitated  it ! 

In  the  house  of  the  Vestal  Virgins  we  saw 
some  fine  pavements  lately  uncovered.  Vesta  is 
by  far  the  most  interesting  of  the  Roman  divini- 

256 


OLD   AND   NEW  ROME 

ties.  Is  there  a  shrine  to  her  at  RadchfFe  ?  There 
should  be  ;  we  owe  Rome  the  "  higher  education," 
as  we  owe  her  the  law  we  live  by,  the  army  we 
conquer  by.  Close  to  the  Temple  of  Vesta  we 
saw  the  place  where  earthquakes  were  foretold  by 
the  simplest  contrivance.  On  a  white  marble 
platform  finely  adjusted  weights  were  placed  so 
as  to  oscillate  with  the  first,  otherwise  impercep- 
tible, tremors  of  the  earth  ;  in  this  way  the  know- 
ing ones  were  enabled  to  foretell  the  earthquakes 
to  the  populace.  Not  far  from  here  is  the  point 
where  lightning  once  struck,  making  a  hole  ever 
after  held  sacred.  It  was  turned  into  a  sacred 
well,  wherein  jewels,  cups,  and  other  precious 
offerings  were  thrown  by  the  devout  or  the  su- 
perstitious. Both  these  shrines  are  very  near  the 
Temple  of  Vesta.  Was  it  by  chance  that  the 
fanes  of  the  three  things  primitive  man  fears  most, 
fire,  earthquake,  and  lightning,  should  be  so  near 
together  ?     The  capo  thinks  not. 

"  Now  come  and  see  the  Republican  well  I 
have  just  found,"  he  said,  leading  the  way  to  a 
deep  pit  in  the  form  of  an  amphora,  with  smooth 
rounded  sides  lined  with  cement. 

*'  Notice  the  work  they  did  in  the  days  of  the 
Repubhc ;  it  is  fiir  better  than  the  work  of  the 
17  2^7 


ROMA  BEATA 

Empire.  See  this  cement,  as  perfect  as  the  day 
it  was  laid." 

"  What  did  you  find  in  this  well  ? "  we  asked. 

"  Come  and  see.  Here  are  a  gi-eat  number  of 
styluses  —  the  Roman  pens  used  for  writing  on 
wax  tablets  "  (do  you  suppose  some  poor  devil  of 
a  literary  man  threw  them  in  in  a  moment  of 
despair  ? )  "  and  the  entire  contents  of  a  Republi- 
can butcher's  shop.  See,  there  is  the  great  cleaver, 
these  are  the  knives  —  even  the  wooden  handles 
are  intact.  These  round  stones  are  the  weights, 
here  is  the  thigh  bone  of  the  last  ox  slaughtered 
before  the  shop  came  to  grief,  and  here —  take  it 
carefully,  it  is  of  terra-cotta  —  is  the  butcher's 
lamp.  Do  you  make  out  the  design  ?  It  is  in 
the  shape  of  an  inflated  oxhide." 

I  never  saw  the  like  of  that  lamp  !  Of  all  the 
precious  things  the  capo  has  unearthed,  I  most 
covet  the  Republican  butcher's  squat  little  earth- 
enware lamp  with  the  neck  of  the  skin  pursed  to- 
gether to  hold  the  wick. 

"  Now  come  and  look  at  the  true  Via  Sacra  ; 
you  see  it  lies  several  feet  below  the  road  we 
used  to  call  the  Sacred  Way.  Do  you  observe 
how  much  finer  this  early  pavement  is  than  the 
later  paving  ?     But  wait,  I  shall  show  you  better 

258 


OLD  AND  NEW  ROME 

yet,  —  the  earlier  the  work,  the  better  the  work- 
manship." 

As  we  stood  on  the  large  squares  of  smooth 
gi-ay  stone,  a  cloud  veiled  the  hot  August  sun,  a 
shadow  crossed  the  pavement.  Might  it  not 
have  been  just  here  that  Horace  tacked  to  avoid 
meeting  that  bore  Crispinus  ?  When  midsum- 
mer comes  and  everybody  goes  away,  and  there 
remains  only  Rome,  ourselves,  and  the  mighty 
ghosts,  —  these  grow  so  real  that  I  wonder  if  I 
dreamed  the  tea-party-picnicking  Rome  of  winter 
and  spring. 

"  Here  is  the  Basilica  Emilia.  We  should  not 
have  been  able  to  excavate  this  if  it  had  not  been 
for  Mr.  St.  Clair  Baddeley,  who  raised  the  money 
in  England  to  buy  the  land  and  indemnify  the 
owners  of  the  houses  we  were  obliged  to  pull 
down.  Look  at  these  two  delightful  bas-reliefs  ; 
have  you  ever  seen  such  a  treatment  of  the 
acanthus  ? " 

The  reliefs  are  the  most  florid  —  one  might 
almost  say  *'  baroque"  —  acanthus  designs  I  have 
ever  seen.  In  one  the  flower  in  the  centre  of  the 
"  curly  cue "  ends  in  a  prancing  horse  ;  the  other 
terminates  in  some  apochryphal  beast,  like  a 
dragon. 

259 


ROMA  BEATA 

"  Wait,  wait  till  I  make  a  copy  of  this  adorable 
white  and  green  pavement,"  I  cried.  It  was  a 
geometrical  design  in  Emilia's  Basilica.  A  design 
that  I  have  never  seen  either  in  Egypt  or  Greece. 

"  For  that  you  will  not  need  me,"  said  the 
capo ;  "it  is  growing  late  and  hot ;  now  for 
the  Lapis  Niger!"  Like  a  child  he  had  kept 
the  best  of  the  feast  for  the  last.  As  we  went, 
I  picked  up  a  small  piece  of  iridescent  glass, 
opal,  rose,  and  pearl,  a  bit  of  heaven's  rainbow 
dug  from  the  "  sacred  earth." 

"  What  might  this  have  been  ? "  I  asked. 

"  That  we  shall  see,  perhaps  part  of  a  tear 
bottle,  perhaps  a  fragment  of  the  vessel  in  which 
the  vestals  daily  brought  lustral  water  for  the 
altars  from  the  Fountain  of  Egeria ! "  Was  he 
laughing  at  me  ? 

I  shall  not  forget  the  sensation  produced  by 
the  first  sight  of  the  Lapis  Niger,  the  black  stone 
of  the  so-called  tomb  of  Romulus.  Whether 
the  smooth  slab  of  black  marble  actually  covered 
the  ashes  of  Romulus,  or  was  a  later  monument 
put  up  to  his  memory,  has  not  yet,  I  believe, 
been  established.  They  do  know  that  the  in- 
scription on  the  cippus  beneath  the  stone  is 
written  in  the  most  ancient  Latin  which  has  yet 

260 


OLD  AND   NEW  ROME 

come  to  light  —  the  epigraphists  are  still  cracking 
their  brains  trying  to  read  it.  Is  it  not  pleasant 
to  have  the  sceptical  German  historians  routed  ? 
To  have  our  Romulus  and  Remus  given  back 
to  us,  our  Tarquins,  our  Numa  Pompilius, 
and  Egeria  ?  To  tell  the  truth,  I  never  gave 
them  up,  I  always  kept  a  sneaking  belief  in 
demigods  and  heroes,  took  Hawthorne's  word 
against  the  Teutons.  Now  I  am  being  justified 
right  and  left.  Boni  finds  the  Tomb  of  Romulus 
in  the  Roman  Forum,  Dr.  Evans  finds  the  palace 
of  Minos,  and  the  labyrinth  of  the  Minotaur  in 
Crete. 

To  comfort-loving  persons  Rome  is  the  most 
satisfactory  place  in  the  world  for  the  study  of 
man  —  from  the  savage  of  thirty  centuries  ago 
in  his  tree  coffin,  fished  up  from  the  bottom  of 
Lake  Trasimeno  (now  at  the  Museum  Papa 
Giulio),  to  Victor  Emmanuel  in  his  tomb  at  the 
Pantheon.  Think  of  it,  the  first  king  of  Young 
Italy  sleeping  in  a  temple  of  Ancient  Rome 
which  has  been  in  use  ever  since  it  was  built 
in  the  year  27  B.C.  Athens  is  a  thousand  times 
more  beautiful  than  Rome,  but  to  the  ultra 
modern  Greece  seems  on  the  outskirts  of 
"to-day."     Here,  here  in   Rome,  we  fancy  we 

261 


ROMA  BEATA 

are  in  the  midst  of  things,  and  creature  comforts 
are  still  to  be  had,  as  in  the  days  of  LucuUus 
(I  recommend  you  an  omelette  smifflie  aux  sur- 
prises a  la  Grand  Hotel!  Outside  an  ordinary 
hot  soufflde  —  the  surprise  is  the  heart,  cold 
sublimated  chocolate  ice-cream)  ! 

Not  long  since,  while  lunching  at  that  lux- 
urious restaurant,  we  became  aware  of  a  person- 
age at  the  next  table.  Everybody  looked  at 
him  ;  it  was  impossible  not  to  look  at  him.  He 
was  a  large,  masterful  man  with  a  high  color, 
young  gray  hair,  and  a  look  of  power  I  have  not 
often  met.  We  began  to  guess  his  nationality. 
1  immediately  claimed  him.  "  He  is  an  American, 
a  Western  senator,  from  Montana  or  Washington 
State." 

There  was  something  large  and  dauntless 
about  him,  the  free  look  of  one  coming  from  a 
young  country. 

"  Please  find  out  w^ho  that  gentleman  at  the 
next  table  is  ?  "  our  host  said  to  the  waiter. 

The  man  seemed  surprised  at  the  question. 

"  That  is  Cecil  Rhodes,  sir,"  he  answered. 

After  that  we  could  not  help  catching  some  of 
his  talk  —  perhaps  we  did  not  try  very  hard  —  it 
was  brilliant,  exhilarating,  and  cordial.    His  guests 

262 


OLD  AND   NEW  ROME 

were  hardly  more  en  rapport  with  him  than 
the  rest  of  us  in  the  room.  He  was  not  uncon- 
scious that  the  people  who  sat  near,  the  waiters, 
even  the  sphinx-like  manager,  hovering  in  the 
offing  with  impassive  face,  were  thrilled  by  being 
in  his  company :  nor  could  his  attitude  be  called 
conscious.  He  merely  seemed  aware  of  us, 
could  no  more  help  dominating  the  chance 
crowd  in  a  fashionable  restaurant  than  his  fellows 
in  the  Transvaal. 

It  happened  that  after  lunch  we  took  our 
friends  "  sightseeing"  to  the  Kircheriano  Museum, 
where  we  found  one  of  the  earliest  Roman 
citizens  and  his  wife,  still  lying  side  by  side  in 
the  very  earth  the  mourners  threw  over  them, 
his  rude  stone  weapons,  her  primitive  household 
utensils  close  to  their  hands.  There,  you  see, 
are  the  two  ends  of  your  chain  of  interest  (there 
is  not  a  missing  link  between),  —  the  pre-historic 
man  at  the  Kircheriano  Museum  and  the  man 
who  is  making  history,  Cecil  Rhodes,  on  his 
way  to  South  Africa,  lunching  at  the  Grand 
Hotel  1 


26s 


XII 

THE   ANNO   SANTO 

Palazzo  Rusticucci,  Rome,  February  7,  1900. 

"  If  I  am  ever  a  rich  man, — "  Patsy  began. 

"  Which  heaven  forfend  —  you  have  not  the 
gift  I "  said  the  monsignore. 

"  Wait  and  see  !  —  I  shall  build  a  great  church." 

"  Like  St.  Peter's  there  ? " 

We  were  on  the  terrace.  The  sun  was  setting 
behind  the  chapel  of  the  Vatican.  There  was 
still  light  enough  for  the  yellow  of  the  sun- 
soaked  facade,  the  pale  blue  of  the  dome,  to  tell 
against  the  gi'ay  and  rosy  sky. 

"  Oh,  make  it  the  Parthenon  !  They  both  give 
a  fellow  the  same  sort  of  feeling  as  being  in  love 
does,  or  seeing  Niagara." 

"  It  is  not  a  bad  use  to  put  a  fortune  to,"  the 
monsignore  agreed. 

"  It  is  about  time  the  artists  had  their  innings  ! " 
Patsy  declared.  "I  should  like  to  be  referee. 
Gladiators,    prize-fighters    would  n't    be    in    it. 

264, 


THE   ANNO   SANTO 

What  fun  can  there  be  in  backing  such  creatures, 
or  even  a  horse  ?  I  would  rather  stake  my 
fortune  on  an  architect  like  Bramante  —  trust 
my  future  reputation  to  a  painter  like  Pinturric- 
chio  than  to  a  Flying  Childers  or  a  Goldsmith 
Maid." 

"  First  catch  your  hare,"  said  the  monsignore. 

"  The  woods  are  full  of  'em.  Give  the  artists 
a  chance,  and  you  '11  see  the  trouble  is  not  with 
them  I  The  opportunity  must  come  first.  A 
country  has  the  art  it  deserves.  When  we 
Americans  want  beauty  as  much  as  we  want 
rapid  transit  we  shall  get  it." 

"  There  are  some  signs,"  said  the  monsignore. 
"  We  have  art  patrons  who  pay  enormous  sums 
for  old  masters." 

"  Our  art  patrons  lack  imagination,"  said 
Patsy.  "  It  is  so  easy,  so  obvious,  to  buy  *  old 
masters,'  to  patronize  Leonardo  da  Vinci  and 
Botticelli !  I  should  pick  my  men,  give  'em 
the  track,  and  let  'em  show  their  paces.  Wait 
till  I  build  my  cathedral :  you  will  see  an  archi- 
tect, a  painter,  and  a  sculptor  or  two." 

" '  The  hand  that  rounded  Peter  s  dome, 
wrought  with  a  sad  sincerity,' "  quoted  the 
monsignore.     He  had  come  to  tell  us  about  the 

265 


ROMA  BEATA 

Pope's  opening  the  Porta  Santa  on  Christmas 
eve,  —  the  first  of  the  many  functions  of  this 
Anno  Santo. 

Finally  we  "  muzzled "  Patsy,  and  the  mon- 
signore  seized  his  chance  to  speak. 

"As  the  ceremony  was  in  the  portico  of  St. 
Peter's,"  he  said,  "  a  comparatively  small  place, 
very  few  invitations  were  issued.  The  papal 
throne  was  erected  near  the  Porta  Santa,  —  the 
Jubilee  door,  —  it  is  the  one  on  the  extreme 
right  of  the  portico,  you  will  remember  it  by  the 
cross  upon  it.  The  Pope  knocked  three  times 
upon  the  Porta  Santa  with  a  mallet,  saying  as 
he  did  so,  ^'  Aperite  mihi  portas  Justitiae  (Open  to 
me  the  door  of  justice)."  At  the  words  the  door 
(which  was  last  opened  by  Leo  the  Twelfth,  in 
1825)  fell  away  as  if  by  magic,  and  His  Holiness 
walked  alone  into  the  vast  empty  church,  where 
there  was  no  other  living  being  but  himself 
He  tottered  down  the  aisle,  past  the  splendid 
tombs  of  his  predecessors,  beneath  that  unmarked 
sepulchre  over  the  door,  where  Pius  the  Ninth 
lies  waiting  the  day  when  he  must  make  room 
for  him  in  his  tomb  as  he  made  room  for  him 
on  his  throne.  At  the  shrine  of  St.  Peter  the 
Pope  knelt   and  said  a   prayer.     For   me   that 

^6 


THE  ANNO   SANTO 

was  the  great  moment  in  the  whole  gorgeous 
ceremony." 

"  It  all  comes  back  to  the  simple  human  situa- 
tion of  an  old  man  passing  the  tomb  where  he 
soon  must  he  I "  was  Patsy's  comment. 

"  It  is  just  the  simple  human  situation  that 
the  Church  always  comes  back  to,"  said  the 
monsignore. 

"  Oh,  I  say  1  simple,  you  know  I  That 's  put- 
ting it  a  Uttle  strong.  The  scene  you  describe 
is  simple  and  touching,  but,  as  a  rule,  the  services 
over  there  are  more  gorgeous  and  theatrical  than 
religious  I " 

"  Granted,  —  St.  Peter's  is  the  stage  on  which 
the  dramas  of  the  church  are  played.  Why  not  ? 
Why  not  use  every  art  to  the  glory  of  God  — 
music,  the  drama,  all  the  rest  ?  There  are  a 
hundred  quiet  parish  churches  where  one  can  go 
for  devotion  and  aspiration." 

Patsy's  company  is  always  stimulating,  but 
he  rather  interfered  with  my  getting  all  the 
information  I  wanted  from  the  monsignore.  I 
did  manage  to  extract  the  facts  that  the  Anno 
Santo  was  instituted  by  Boniface  VIII.,  in  1300, 
that  it  was  originally  meant  to  celebrate  it 
every  hundred   years  ;    that   the  Romans  peti- 

267 


ROMA  BEATA 

tioned  to  have  the  time  shortened  to  every  fifty 
years,  then  to  thirty-three  years  (the  supposed 
earthly  Ufe  of  Christ),  and  finally  to  every  twenty- 
five  years;  that  at  the  five  other  Basilicas  in 
Rome  ceremonies  like  those  at  St.  Peter's  were 
celebrated  on  the  same  day — a  cardinal  opening 
the  Porta  Santa  in  each,  and  that  during  the 
Anno  Santo  plenary  indulgence  is  obtainable  by 
all  Catholics  who  pass  a  certain  number  of  times 
in  a  given  number  of  days,  through  the  holy 
doors  of  St.  Peter's,  and  the  five  other  Basilicas, 
repeating  the  appointed  prayers. 

"  Every  twenty-five  years,  you  say  ? "  Patsy  in- 
sisted, and  the  last  Jubilee  was  in  1825  — how  is 
that  ? " 

"  In  1850  and  again  in  1875  Rome  was  so  un- 
settled that  the  observance  of  «the  Aimo  Santo 
was  not  expedient,"  said  the  monsignore,  shortly. 

"  Let  me  see,"  mused  Patsy;  "in  1850  Pius 
the  Ninth  was  at  Gaeta,  trying  a  change  of  air 
for  his  health,  and  Mazzini  was  at  the  head 
of  the  Roman  Republic.  In  1875,  Pius  still 
thought  that  the  Dukes  of  Savoy  were  only  cas- 
ual visitors  and  had  not  yet  realized  that  they 
had  come  to  Rome  to  stay.  Isn't  that  about 
the  size  of  it  ? " 

S68 


THE  ANNO   SANTO 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  the  monsignore  imper- 
turbably,  "  now  you  are  talking  about  things  you 
do  not  understand."  He  talked  of  other  things 
for  a  few  moments  and  then  went  away. 

On  Christmas  Eve  the  pilgrims  began  to  ar- 
rive in  torrents,  and  have  been  pouring  in  and 
out  of  the  city  ever  since.  They  will  not  be 
allowed  to  come  in  July  and  August  —  supposed 
to  be  the  least  healthy  months.  They  have 
gathered  from  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth 
hordes  of  strangers  invading  Rome  as  I  believe 
it  has  not  been  invaded  since  the  days  of  Attila 
and  his  Huns.  From  the  terrace  we  see  pilgrims 
from  all  the  CathoUc  nations  of  the  earth  pass 
to  bow  the  knee  and  drop  the  obolo  at  the  feet 
of  the  Prisoner  of  the  Vatican.  These  vast  pil- 
grimages, sometimes  several  thousand  strong  — 
are  admirably  managed.  A  dearth  of  cabs  is  the 
first  sign  we  notice  of  their  arrival.  The  piazza 
is  deserted,  not  a  cab  in  sight.  A  httle  later 
a  procession  of  cabs,  crowded  with  pilgrims  ( six 
to  a  carriage )  and  their  belongings  —  the  queer- 
est boxes,  bales,  bundles  begin  to  rattle  across 
the  piazza  to  the  vast  buildings  in  the  rear  of 
the  Vatican  where  the  pilgrims  lodge.  They 
usually  stay  three  days  ;  during  that  time  they 

269 


ROMA  BEATA 

are  received  by  the  Pope,  visit  all  the  Basilicas, 
see  the  sights,  and  depart  richer  in  experience 
and  plenary  indulgence,  leaving  the  Pope,  the 
shop  keepers,  hotel  keepers,  and  cabmen  richer 
in  money.  Each  flood  gilds  (  or  silver  plates  ) 
poor  old  Rome  till  it  shines  as  it  has  not  shone 
in  years. 

I  did  not  suppose  there  were  so  many  splen- 
did costumes  left  in  the  world  as  have  passed 
through  the  Piazza  of  St.  Peter's  and  under  my 
eyes  during  these  few  months !  Hungarians  in 
tight-fitting  black  breeches,  jackets  trimmed 
with  black  astrakhan  and  long  high  boots.  Her- 
zegovinians  with  wonderful  garments  of  white 
sheepskin,  embroidered  in  red  silk  outlined  de- 
signs ( the  woolly  side  of  the  sheepskin  is  worn 
next  the  person,  the  outside  looks  like  parch- 
ment )  fur-trimmed  boots,  hair  cut  square  across 
the  shoulders,  faces  of  rapt  devotion.  The  Poles 
were  a  superb  group,  the  women  wore  costumes 
of  striped  vermilion  and  emerald  green,  the  men, 
scarlet  breeches,  green  jackets,  and  picturesque 
woollen  caps.  There  were  Cossacks  from  the 
river  Don,  with  long,  gi-ay  woollen  caftans  down 
to  their  heels,  high  pointed  caps,  and  cartridge 
belts  over  their  shoulders,  they  would   be  ugly 

270 


THE  ANNO   SANTO 

customers  to  come  up  against  on  a  less  peaceful 
excursion.  While  driving,  Ave  passed  one  Don 
Cossack  who  reminded  us  so  vividly  of  Taras 
Bulba,  the  hero  of  Gogol's  Iliad  of  the  North, 
that  we  followed  him  for  half  an  hour,  as  he 
stalked  about  the  city,  looking  at  the  sights  as 
if  they  were  all  perfectly  familiar  to  him.  He 
was  a  giant  with  a  mane  of  bronzed  hair,  dark 
eyes,  high  cheek  bones,  and  a  look  of  indomitable 
power,  of  silent  reserved  strength,  that  made  the 
careless  casual  passer-by  seem  an  effete,  over- 
civilized  being.  He  wore  jewel-handled  daggers 
stuck  in  a  waist  belt,  fastened  with  turquoises 
"as  big  as  my  two  thumbs."  He  must  be 
"  somebody  "  at  home. 

The  other  evening  J.  brought  home  the  news 
that  there  were  a  lot  of  pilgrims  lodged  in  the 
wing  of  the  Palazzo  Torlonia,  opposite  his  studio. 
The  next  morning  R.  and  I  hurried  over  to  the 
Borgo  St.  Angelo  to  see  what  was  to  be  seen. 
The  Palazzo  Giraud  Torlonia,  which  has  a  splen- 
did front  on  the  Borgo  Nuovo,  only  a  block 
away  from  the  Rusticucci  —  has  two  long  wings 
in  the  rear,  with  a  courtyard  between  them,  the 
entrance  to  both  wings  being  on  the  Borgo  St. 
Angelo,   rather    a    squalid    back    street.      The 

271 


ROMA  BEATA 

studio  is  a  vast  room  as  big  as  a  church  on 
the  second  floor.  When  my  mother  was  in 
Rome,  on  her  wedding  journey,  she  danced  in 
this  room  at  one  of  the  famous  balls,  given  by 
old  Torlonia,  the  banker  prince,  the  founder  of 
the  family,  and  grandfather  of  the  present  in- 
cumbent, J.'s  landlord.  The  studio  —  at  the  time 
J.  took  it  the  only  available  one  in  Rome  large 
enough  for  his  purpose  —  could  only  be  had  by 
hiring  the  whole  wing,  with  its  three  stories,  the 
right  to  re-let  being  refused.  This  makes  him 
master  of  all  he  surveys,  as  the  grim,  stone- 
paved  courtyard,  with  its  ever-flowing  fountain 
fringed  with  maidenhair  fern,  goes  with  his  wing. 

I  received  a  shock  on  entering  the  studio,  and 
looking  at  the  big  picture  for  the  first  time  in 
days.  The  little  bhndfold  Love  who  led  the 
procession  of  the  centuries  in  The  Flight  of 
Time,  has  been  painted  out !  He  now  exists 
only  in  my  memory,  and  in  the  cartoon,  a  red 
chalk  drawing  hanging  in  our  hall.  Though  the 
composition  is  better  without  him,  it  gave  me  a 
pang  to  find  him  gone.  To  console  me,  I  found 
three  portrait  studies  of  the  beautiful  Lady  K. 

From  the  studio  windows  we  could  see  into 
the  vast  high  rooms  of  the  opposite  ell,  which  is 

272 


THE  ANNO   SANTO 

hired  for  the  pilgrims,  when,  as  on  this  occasion, 
they  cannot  all  be  accommodated  in  the  huge 
lazzaretto  the  Pope  built  during  the  last  cholera 
summer.  That  was  in  1884.  Naples  was  deci- 
mated by  the  disease;  everybody  believed  that 
the  cholera  would  come  to  Rome  (everybody 
except  J.,  who  calmly  passed  the  summer  here). 
The  Pope  built  the  great  lazzaretto  against  the 
cholera's  coming ;  King  Humbert,  of  the  high 
courage,  went  to  meet  the  cholera,  went  to  pest- 
stricken  Naples,  walked  through  the  hospital 
wards  where  the  cholera  patients  lay,  spoke 
comfortably  to  them,  won  new  glory  for  the 
brave  house  of  Savoy,  a  fresh  hold  on  his  peo- 
ple's hearts.  As  the  lazzaretto  —  it  has  never 
been  used  as  such  —  was  not  big  enough  to  hold 
the  P^'rencli  pilgrimage,  some  of  it  spilled  over 
into  the  empty  wing  of  the  Torlonia  Giraud 
Palace,  across  the  courtyard  from  the  studio. 

When  R.  and  I  arrived  on  the  scene  it  was 
the  hour  of  bedmaking.  We  could  see  the  neat, 
light  figures  of  the  nuns  (to  whose  care  the  en- 
tertainment of  the  pilgrims  is  entrusted  )  tucking 
in  the  sheets,  smoothing  out  the  pillows  of  the 
long  lines  of  white  cots  that  filled  the  rooms. 
On  the  sidewalk,  outside  the  green  door  —  all 

18  273 


ROMA  BEATA 

our  doors  in  the  Borgo  seem  to  be  green  —  sat 
a  group  of  old  men  smoking  the  solemn,  after- 
breakfast  pipe.  Feeling  that  we  must  see  the 
pilgrims  at  nearer  view,  we  went  down  to  the 
street  and  out  of  our  door  just  in  time  to  meet 
a  rosy  young  sister  as  she  came  out  of  the  oppo- 
site door  with  a  little  old  peasant  woman,  whose 
face  was  wrinkled  and  brown  as  an  English  wal- 
nut. The  old  peasant  wore  over  a  full  white 
linen  shirt  a  dark  cloth  jacket  cut  square  at  the 
bosom,  with  straps  going  over  the  shoulders. 
The  double-breasted  jacket  was  fastened  with 
silver  buttons  and  heavily  embroidered  in  a 
charming  pattern  with  variegated  silks.  On  her 
head  was  a  plain  white  cap  of  sheer  muslin 
turned  back  over  the  ears,  and  hanging  to  the 
shoulders.  Under  the  muslin  cap  was  a  sort  of 
gilt  skull-cap.  She  wore  a  heavy  plaited  skirt 
of  dark  blue  broadcloth,  sabots  painted  black, 
long  earrings  of  filigree  gold  inset  with  seed 
pearls.  Even  beside  the  pure  linen  of  the  sister, 
she  positively  shone  with  cleanliness. 

"Look  well  at  that  jacket,"  I  said  to  R.,  "did 
you  ever  see  one  like  it  before  ? " 

"  Why,  it  is  our  Breton  jacket ! " 

You  perhaps  remember  that  at  the  old  yellow 

274 


THE  ANNO   SANTO 

house  where  R.  Uves  there  is  a  trunk  full  of 
"  dressing  up  things,"  the  theatrical  wardrobe  of 
the  children,  largely  made  up  of  the  old  finery 
of  three  preceding  generations  I 

"  Did  you  ever  see  that  cap  before  ? "  I 
asked  R. 

"  Why  it 's  grandmama's  cap  I " 

"Long  ago,  when  you  were  only  a  baby, 
grandmother  and  I  passed  a  summer  in  Brittany. 
At  Quimper,  where  we  spent  some  happy  weeks, 
a  jacket  like  that  was  made  for  me,  and  we 
found  the  one  and  only  model  for  grandmama's 
cap. 

The  little  old  peasant  woman  carried  a  large 
blue  cotton  umbrella,  with  time-yellowed  ivory 
handle  and  points,  a  perfect  ark,  under  which 
three  even  four  generations  might  take  refuge 
from  a  deluge.  I  looked  at  her  so  intently,  with 
such  a  passion  of  longing  memory,  that  she  must 
have  seen  something  more  than  common  curi- 
osity in  my  glance,  for  she  gave  me  a  second 
look  less  preoccupied,  more  gentle  than  the  first, 
and  then  paused.  1  grasped  the  opportunity,  and 
going  up  to  her  asked  in  French  how  things  were 
at  Quimper?  She  hstened  patiently,  politely, 
understanding  nothing  of  what  I  said  till  I  pro- 

275 


UOMA  BEATA 

nounced  the  magic  word  "  Quimper."  Then  the 
old  eyes  grew  keen  and  intent.  She  put  out  a 
hand  and  answered  me  in  a  flood  of  kindly 
Breton,  whose  sound  only  was  familiar  to  me. 
For  some  minutes  we  stood  there  in  the  middle 
of  the  Borgo  St.  Angelo,  shaking  hands,  looking 
intently  at  each  other,  first  one,  then  the  other 
repeating  the  word  "  Quimper  I "  To  her  it 
meant  home ;  to  me,  the  one  thing  dearer ! 
Then  with  a  last  tightening  of  the  hands  we 
parted.  We  recognized  other  of  the  Breton  cos- 
tumes, from  St. -Pol-de-Leon,  Douarnenez,  the 
Morbihan,  we  remembered  having  seen  some  of 
them  at  the  great  pardon  of  Ploermel.  The  caps 
of  Quimper  are  quite  distinct  from  the  caps  of 
Quimperle,  you  understand,  though  the  towns 
are  not  far  apart ! 

That  afternoon,  with  a  roll  of  thunder  drums 
and  a  flash  of  lightning,  the  deluge  descended 
upon  the  Borgo.  I  rushed  to  the  watch-tower 
—  our  upper  terrace,  to  see  the  storm.  From 
the  four  quarters  of  the  sky  the  lightning  swords 
smote  at  each  other ;  from  the  soft  white  clouds 
above  the  Castle  St.  Angelo  came  rose-colored 
lightning  with  a  growl ;  from  a  purple  rack  over 
St.  Peter's  a  piercing  yellow  zigzag,  like  a  Saracen 

276 


THE  ANNO   SANTO 

blade,  followed  by  the  crack  of  cannon.  Veils 
of  rain  fell,  mixed  with  the  white  spray  of  the 
fountains,  and  were  driven  in  smoky  slieets  across 
the  square.  The  piazza  was  alive  with  pilgrims 
coming  away  from  St.  Peter's,  where  service  was 
just  over,  the  steps  were  black  with  people. 
The  pilgrims  scattered  like  leaves  before  the 
storm ;  the  skirts  of  women  and  priests  were 
blown  about,  like  the  bewitched  draperies  of  the 
Bernini  statues  on  the  facade  of  the  church.  In 
the  midst  of  the  hurrying,  scurrying  crowd  I  made 
out  the  blue  umbrella  ark  of  Quimper,  valiantly 
held  up  by  a  tall  young  peasant ;  my  little  old 
woman  —  perhaps  his  mother  —  paddled  along 
on  one '  side,  a  stout  wench  —  perhaps  his  wife 
— on  the  other.  The  cabs  were  all  snatched  up 
in  a  moment.  Down  in  the  Borgo  I  could  see 
the  gobbo  waiting  for  me  at  our  door.  I  had  to 
keep  a  pressing  engagement  and  dared  not  delay 
till  the  tempest  passed,  lest  the  gobbo  and  his 
cab  be  ravished  from  my  sight.  As  we  rattled 
along  the  Borgo  Nuovo,  I  recognized  the  par- 
roco;  he  was  without  an  umbrella  and  was 
getting  soaked  to  the  skin.  As  we  would  pass 
his  door  it  seemed  the  part  of  friendship  to  give 
him  a  hft. 

277 


ROMA  BEATA 

"  Stop  !  "  I  cried  to  the  gohbo  ;  "  the  parroco 
is  going  our  way,  we  will  take  him  home." 

"  There  is  no  use  in  stopping,"  said  the  gobbo. 
I  insisted.  Sulky  and  grumbling  he  drew  up 
just  outside  the  hospital  of  the  Santo  Spirito. 
The  water  was  rushing  through  the  gutter  Hke 
a  small  millstream. 

"  Jump  in,  padre,  we  will  take  you  home." 

"  No,  no.     Thank  you  —  it  is  impossible  I  " 

1  persisted. 

"  Drive  on ! "  he  cried  impatiently  to  the 
gobbo.  To  me  more  gently,  "  It  would  not  do 
for  me  to  be  seen  driving  with  a  lady." 

As  the  gobbo  whipped  up  the  old  white 
horse,  a  crowded  carriage  containing  four  women 
and  two  foreign-looking  priests  passed  us.  I 
looked  back  at  the  parroco;  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  his  lips  formed  the  words,  "  What 
can  you  expect  ?     They  are  French  !  " 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  Signora  mia?  "  murmured 
the  gobbo.  "  It  would  have  been  a  scandal  for 
the  poor  parroco  to  be  seen  driving  with  you  I  " 

Was  n't  that  slap  at  the  French  nice  ?  The 
parroco  served  his  two  years  in  the  army  when 
he  was  young ;  he  is  a  good  Italian,  a  son  of  the 
soil,  a  son  of  the  Church.     The  passions  of  his 

278 


THE  ANNO   SANTO 

race  are  strong  in  him,  and  in  spite  of  his 
cassock  he  hates  a  Frenchman  I 

Coming  home  late  that  evening  we  found 
behind  our  door  a  small  wallet  lined  with  coarse 
red  morocco.  It  contained  nothing  but  memo- 
randa of  modest  expenditures :  ' 

Cab,  one  franc. 

Candles,  six  sous. 

Tobacco,  fifty  centimes. 

Rosary  of  amethyst  beads  (for  Berthe),  four 
francs. 

Souvenirs  of  Rome,  seven  francs,  etc. 

Crabbedly  written  on  the  flyleaf  was  the  ad- 
dress of  a  priest  of  Vaucluse.  VaucliLse  /  Is  n't 
that  a  name  to  conjure  with  ?  We  read  the  poor 
priest's  case  as  easily  as  his  simple  record  of  ex- 
penses. No  people  are  quite  so  attentive  to  the 
pilgrims  as  the  "  Hght-fingered  gentry."  The 
thief  who  stole  the  pocket-book,  after  taking  out 
whatever  of  value  it  contained,  threw  it  into  our 
doorway  to  be  rid  of  it.  J.  has  sent  it  by  post 
to  the  priest  at  Vaucluse ;  it  will  at  least  help 
him  to  make  up  his  accounts. 

"  Souvenirs,"  always  a  staple  of  Roman  trade, 
are  more  in  evidence  in  the  shop  windows 
than  ever.     The  French  pilgrims  buy  a  great 

279 


ROMA  BEATA 

many  souvenirs.  We  saw  our  old  friend  from 
Quimper  in  a  shop  in  the  Borgo.  To  get  another 
look  at  her,  and  to  show  her  to  Patsy,  who  was 
with  me,  we  went  in  and  looked  at  souvenirs. 
Besides  the  "  articles  of  religion "  there  were 
semi-religious  articles ;  spoons,  pens,  pins,  a 
thousand  useless  nothings  bearing  the  triple 
crown,  the  keys  of  Peter,  the  sacred  initials. 
The  shop-keeper  laid  a  tray  full  before  Patsy, 
who  turned  them  over  indifferently.  "Fancy 
keeping  stamps  in  this,"  he  held  up  a  box  with 
the  white  dove  of  the  Spirito  Santo  inlaid  upon 
the  cover,  "  or  cutting  Punch  with  that ! "  he 
displayed  a  paper  knife  with  the  figure  of  the 
Lamb.  "I  say,  you  know,  the  common  use 
the  shop-keepers  put  these  sacred  symbols  to  is 
more  than  I  can  stand  ! " 

The  shop-keeper  thought  he  understood ;  we 
caught  his  whisper  to  his  wife,  "  They  are  not 
Christians,  they  are  Saracens  I "  to  us  he  said, 
"  Have  patience,  sir,  here  is  your  affair ! " 

He  opened  a  drawer  under  the  counter.  It  con- 
tained the  same  souvenirs,  the  same  boxes,  spoons, 
pens,  paper-knives,  what-nots,  with  Mahomedan 
symbols,  instead  of  Christian  —  the  crescent,  the 
star,  the  scimitar,  the  monogram  of  the  prophet. 

280 


THE  ANNO   SANTO 

"  No,  not  quite  our  affair,"  said  Patsy.  "  We 
are  not  Mahomedans." 

The  shop  in  which  we  were  chaffering  is  in 
the  very  shadow  of  Peter's  dome  ;  the  bells  in 
the  clock  tower  were  ringing  the  Ave. 

The  cry  is,  Still  they  come  !  Pilgrims,  pilgrims, 
pilgrims.  By  just  sitting  tight  on  our  terrace  and 
using  our  eyes,  the  uttermost  parts  of  Christen- 
dom have  been  brought  to  us.  Sardinians,  for 
instance.  When  Patsy  came  back  from  his 
moufflon  hunting  trip  in  Sardinia,  and  talked 
familiarly  about  "  Sards,"  we  were  devoured  with 
curiosity  to  see  them  for  ourselves.  A  week 
after,  the  "  Sards  "  arrived  in  force.  They  are 
more  Hke  Corsicans,  or  even  Spaniards,  than 
like  Italians ;  they  have  grave,  dark,  impassive 
faces,  and  an  expression  of  sombre  reserve.  The 
men's  dress  is  in  keeping  with  their  character ; 
a  black  woollen,  knitted  bonnet,  like  a  sailor's 
cap,  hangs  on  one  side  to  the  shoulder,  close- 
fitting  jacket,  leggings,  and  sash,  all  black.  Their 
coarse  homespun  linen  shirts,  made  very  full  in 
the  bosom  and  sleeves,  and  worn  without  starch, 
are  a  great  improvement  on  the  dreadful  stiff, 
white  armor  in  which  our  men  encase  them- 
selves for  their  sins  !     The  "  Sards' "  only  orna- 

281 


ROMA  BEATA 

ments  were  silver  buckles  worn  at  the  knees  and 
on  the  shoes. 

One  morning  J.,  who  had  started  early  for 
the  studio,  came  back  to  tell  me  that  a  group  of 
Filipinos  had  just  gone  over  to  St.  Peter's. 

"  How  do  you  know  they  are  Filipinos  ? " 

•'  I  don't  know  ;  they  look  like  two  Filipino 
art  students  who  used  to  be  in  Rome.  One 
of  them  was  named  Luna.  He  was  the  best 
draughtsman  in  the  studio ;  he  beat  everybody 
at  drawing ;  seemed  to  have  a  dash  of  the  Jap- 
anese dexterity." 

"  Was  he  any  relation  to  General  Luna  ? " 

"  Only  his  brother,"  said  J.  Now  that  is 
Rome,  and   that  is  J. ! 

I  hurried  over  to  St.  Peter's  and  caught  up 
with  the  Filipinos  before  they  had  made  the 
third  chapel  of  prayer.  They  are  small,  swarthy 
men ;  their  faces  show  a  strange  mingling  of 
races,  something  of  the  Malay,  the  Mongol,  the 
Latin,  with  a  fourth  element  I  did  not  recog- 
nize, —  rather  deadly  looking  folk,  T  thought,  but 
very  devout  in  their  behavior  at  church. 

When  royalty  comes  to  the  Vatican  there  is 
a  deal  of  pother.  The  morning  of  the  King  of 
Siam's   visit  to  the   Pope,  we  were   waked   at 

282 


THE   ANNO   SANTO 

dawn  by  the  carts  fetching  the  royal  yellow  sand, 
and  the  men  spreading  it  thick  over  the  streets 
where  the  wheels  of  royalty  were  to  pass.  The 
King,  whom  we  saw  perfectly,  is  a  fierce-looking 
httle  fellow ;  he  was  dressed  in  quite  the  most 
lovely  uniform  I  have  ever  seen ;  white  broad- 
cloth, embroidered  in  gold.  Do  you  suppose  their 
good  clothes  are  any  mitigation  to  the  ennui  of 
sovereigns  ?     I  should  think  they  might  be. 

Easter  Sunday,  1900. 

We  thought  we  had  seen  Rome  crowded  be- 
fore, but  we  had  not !  During  the  past  week, 
the  crowds  have  been  almost  inconceivable.  By 
Wednesday  all  the  bathrooms  at  the  Grand  Hotel 
that  could  be  spared  had  been  turned  into  bed- 
rooms. Last  night  a  pair  of  travellers  slept  in 
the  red  plush  cushioned  elevator,  and  two  in  the 
big  comfortable  hotel  omnibus.  Cabs  are  a  rare 
commodity  —  even  the  gobbo  has  deserted  us 
and  hired  himself  out  by  the  week  to  the  pil- 
grims. The  electric  cars  (did  I  tell  you  they  had 
put  these  pests  in  under  our  very  windows  ? ) 
are  so  jammed  that  we  go  for  the  most  part 
"  shanks'  mare."  Many  of  our  friends  have  let 
their  apartments,  and  gone  away  for  the  rest  of 

283 


ROMA   BEATA 

the  season.  We  could  have  got  a  good  price  for 
ours ;  but  in  spite  of  the  undeniable  inconven- 
ience (the  cost  of  provisions  has  almost  doubled), 
we  would  not  have  missed  the  experience.  The 
city  has  been  a  Babel  of  foreign  tongues,  a  kalei- 
descope  of  foreign  faces  and  costumes.  One 
tastes  life  as  from  a  goblet  filled  and  brimming 
over  with  sparkling,  heady  wine.     That  old  gog- 

pate,  Z ,  has  let  his  villa,  carriage,  servants, 

even  his  precious  Antonio,  the  best  cook  in 
Rome.  He  said  to  J.,  "I  cannot  afford  to  stay 
in  Rome  when  the  price  of  filet  has  doubled 
and  I  can  get  my  whole  year's  rent  by  letting  the 
villa  for  three  months." 

"  We  cannot  afford  not  to  stay  in  Rome  when 
it  is  so  interesting,"  said  J.  There  you  have 
the  two  ways  of  looking  at  life  —  the  Philistine's 
and  the  artist's  I 

We  have  taken  part  in  a  carbonization  —  there 
remained  but  that  —  of  all  the  ceremonials  on 
"  that  stage  of  the  Church "  incomparably  the 
most  sumptuous  we  have  seen.  When  I  heard 
that  the  new  saint's  name  was  La  Salle,  stirred  by 
memories  of  Parkman's  "  Discovery  of  the  Great 
West,"  I  insisted  upon  having  tickets  to  one 
of    the   private   tribunes.     I    confess    it    was   a 

284 


THE  ANNO   SANTO 

disappointment  to  find  that  we  were  making  a 
saint  of  the  wrong  Lasalle,  not  our  own  Ren^ 
Robert  CaveUer,  Sieur  de  La  Salle,  but  another 
doubtless  excellent  person  described  as  "  a  dis- 
tinguished educator  priest."  You  have  heard 
about  so  many  ceremonies  that  I  will  only 
speak  of  the  river  of  bishops  I  I  did  not 
suppose  there  were  so  many  bishops  in  the 
world.  They  passed  down  the  vast  church  in 
a  line  of  seething  white  and  gold,  stretching  from 
the  entrance  down  the  nave  to  the  very  chair  of 
Peter  behind  the  high  altar.  Every  bishop 
carried  a  tall  white  wax  torch,  whose  yellow 
flame  lighted  up  his  white  and  gold  vestments, 
his  gold-tipped  mitre  and  crozier.  I  shall  never 
forget  that  dazzHng  splendor  I  I  have  seen  so 
many  of  these  great  pageants  that  I  am  rather 
blasee  about  them,  but  those  gorgeous  bishops 
in  their  immaculate  white  and  gold  robes  out- 
shone even  the  arrogant  vermilion  cardinals, 
the  purple  canons  with  their  gray  fur  capes  — 
even  that  man  of  ivory  and  iron,  Leo  XIII., 
carried  aloft  in  the  Sedia  G^statoria,  on  the 
shoulders  of  six  crimson  lackeys,  the  triple 
crown  blazing  on  his  head. 

On  the  31st  of  May  I  happened  in  to  Santa 

285 


ROMA   BEATA 

Maria  Sopra  Minerva,  a  dear  church,  built  on 
the  ruins  of  an  ancient  temple  of  Minerva.  Fra 
Angelico  is  buried  here  (how  can  his  native 
Fiesole  spare  his  bones)  ?  There  is  an  ancient 
Greek  sarcophagus,  with  Hercules  taming  the 
Nemean  lion  in  relief;  there  is  a  picture  of 
Torquemada,  the  terrible  confessor  of  Isabella ; 
there  is  an  adorable  flower-bespattered  tomb 
carved  by  that  sweetest  of  statuaries,  Mino  da 
Fiesole,  and  a  hundred  other  "  features  "I  In 
the  piazza  outside  stands  an  engaging  marble 
elephant,  with  the  smallest  of  Egyptian  obelisks 
on  his  back ;  altogether  the  place  is  a  good 
example  of  what  one  is  forever  harking  back 
to,  —  Rome's  golden  blending  of  things  Greek, 
Egyptian,  classic,  pagan,  early  Christian,  re- 
naissance, and  rococo  ! 

In  the  pulpit  who  should  be  thundering  away, 
whacking  the  dusty  crimson  cushions  till  the 
beautiful  old  carved  pulpit  shook,  but  our  friend 
the  parroco !  He  seemed  so  much  in  earnest 
that  I  paid  two  cents  for  a  chair  and  sat  down  to 
listen  to  him.  His  subject  was  the  erudition  of 
Mary,  "  the  most  learned  woman,"  he  said,  "  who 
has  ever  lived.  Her  knowledge  of  languages  — 
sjie  spoke  at  least  twenty  —  proves  this.     She  is 

286 


THE   ANNO   SANTO 

known  to  have  talked  with  Moabites,  Samaritans, 
Egyptians,  and  other  persons,  to  the  number  of 
twenty  different  nationahties."  The  hypothesis 
that  some  of  these  persons  may  have  spoken 
Aramaic,  Mary's  own  language,  was  not  admitted 
by  the  preacher. 

Coming  out  after  church,  I  overheard  one  well- 
dressed  contadhia  —  senza  cappello  (without  a 
hat),  a  social  grade  is  marked  by  the  wearing  of 
a  hat  —  say  to  another  peasant  woman,  — 

"My  son  has  preached  a  new  sermon  on  the 
Madonna  on  each  of  the  thirty-one  days  of  her 
month.     He  has  done  well."     I  thought  he  had  I 

It  was  the  parrocd's  mother.  She  had  the 
same  soft  dark  eyes,  the  same  mouth,  the  same 
smile  —  the  mother  for  whose  sake,  as  he  him- 
self told  us,  he  became  a  priest.  "  Poverella,''  he 
said,  "  it  was  her  wish  ;  I  am  all  that  she  has  ; 
how  could  I  disappoint  her  ?  and  she  believes 
that  one  day  I  shall  receive  the  cardinal's  hat !  " 

He  had  come  as  he  always  does,  the  Saturday 
before  Easter,  to  bless  the  house.  Pompilia  and 
Filomena  had  been  on  their  marrow- bones  for 
a  week,  rubbing,  scrubbing,  polishing,  setting  the 
house  in  order  for  the  rite.  On  the  kitchen 
dresser  the  prescribed  food  to  be  eaten  on  Easter 

287 


ROMA   BEATA 

Sunday  was  neatly  arranged:  eggs  and  morta- 
della  for  breakfast ;  lamb,  green  peas,  a  certain 
broth  made  with  lemon  and  eggs,  served  only  on 
this  day  of  the  year,  and  the  sweet  dish  already 
prepared,  —  what  the  Italians  call  zuppa  Inglese, 
and  we  call  Italian  cream  I  In  a  vase  were 
carefully  preserved  the  blossoms  of  wall  flowers, 
stocks,  and  violets,  from  the  sepulchre  of  Holy 
Thursday  at  the  church  near  by  in  the  Piazza 
Scossa  Cavalli ;  these,  according  to  tradition,  must 
deck  our  Easter  dinner  table.  It  was  four  o'clock 
when  the  parroco  reached  our  house.  He  was 
very  smart  in  his  neat  beretta,  —  a  high,  square, 
black  silk  cap, — his  best  white  linen  cotta  trimmed 
with  handsome  lace,  freshly  starched  and  ironed. 
It  was  "  done  up,"  I  '11  be  bound,  by  that  good 
brown  mother  of  his.  He  was  followed  by  an 
imp  of  a  boy  with  the  oddest  snub  nose,  and 
hair  growing  almost  down  to  his  eyebrows, 
who  made  the  responses  and  carried  tlie  silver 
holy-water  vessel  by  a  pair  of  enchanting  wrought 
handles.  We  formed  a  procession,  headed  by  the 
parroco  and  the  imp  ;  next  came  the  padrona  di 
casa  (myself) ;  behind  me  walked  Pompilia  the 
cook  in  the  time-honored  striped  black  silk  which 
I  had  given  to  Nena,  and  she,  ^'per  miseria^'  had 

288 


THE  ANNO   SANTO 

sold  to  the  cook ;  after  her,  Filomena,  the  pret- 
tiest girl  in  the  Borgo,  in  her  best  blue  frock  and 
a  rose  in  her  hair ;  the  procession  was  brought  up 
in  the  rear  by  Nena,  —  the  witch,  the  snuff-taker, 
the  footman,  the  mainstay  and  comfort  of  the 
whole  household.  She  had  borrowed  a'  clean 
apron,  smoothed  her  rough,  gray  hair,  and 
redeemed  her  coral  beads  and  gold  earrings 
from  pawn  at  the  Monte  di  Pieta.  There  were 
flowers  everywhere  in  the  house,  the  terrace  had 
been  rifled,  roses,  roses,  roses,  red,  pink,  saffron. 
In  the  very  best  vase  were  a  single  white  rose 
from  my  mother's  favorite  tree,  the  Catherine 
Cook,  and  one  mammoth  pink  one  from  Captain 
Christy.  We  marched  first  to  the  salon,  the 
most  honorable  room.  The  parroco  dipped  a 
silver  sprinkler  in  the  lustral  water,  which  he 
sprinkled  in  four  directions,  north,  south,  east, 
west,  saying  as  he  did  so,  "  Bless,  O  Lord,  this 
place,  that  in  it  may  be  health,  chastity,  victory, 
virtue,  humility,  goodness,  sweetness,  the  fulness 
of  law  and  thanksgiving,  and  may  this  blessing 
abide  in  this  place  and  upon  all  those  who  dwell 
herein." 

Whether  by  chance  or  intention,  a  few  drops 
fell  upon  a  group  of  family  portraits  hanging  on 

19  289 


ROMA   BEATA 

the  wall.  Our  dear  sunny  chamber  was  next 
blessed,  then  the  dining-room,  the  den,  finally 
the  servants'  quarters  and  the  kitchen.  In  each 
room  the  prayer  was  repeated,  the  water  sprin- 
kled. The  parroco  was  in  a  hurry,  he  could 
not  wait  to  taste  a  gocdatino  di  vino  or  a  bit  of  the 
pizze  Filomena's  mother  had  sent  us  from  her 
home  in  Umbria,  —  there  were  many  more  houses 
to  be  blessed  before  nightfall.  We  went  with  him 
to  the  door,  shook  hands,  slipping  into  his  palm 
a  small  envelope  —  the  imp  carried  openly  the 
silver  plate  in  which  I  dropped  his  share  of  the 
modest  offering,  then  with  hasty  bows  and  smiles 
and  "  buona  pasqica  (happy  Easter) "  the  pair  of 
them  clattered  down  the  long  travertina  staircase, 
past  the  recumbent  Etruscan  ladies,  with  their 
button-like  eyes,  who  guard  our  stair,  leaving 
me  to  enjoy  our  clean,  sweet-smelling  house.  On 
the  terrace  an  hour  later,  drinking  in  the  glory 
of  the  sunset,  came  an  odd  sense  of  the  fitness 
and  familiarity  of  it  all.  This  blessing  the  house, 
the  food,  the  penates,  the  tools,  the  effigies  of 
ancestors  is  the  Little  Ambervalia  Pater  de- 
scribes so  deliciously  in  Marius,  the  Epicurean ; 
there  is,  too,  an  echo  in  it  of  the  Vestalia,  the  fes- 
tival in  honor  of  Vesta,  held  at  the  house  of  the 

290 


THE  ANNO   SANTO 

V^estal  Virgins  on  the  9th  of  June,  "  after  which 
the  temple  was  closed  for  five  days  for  ceremonial 
cleansing  I "  At  home,  in  God's  own  country, 
the  ceremony  survives  under  the  name  of  spring 
cleaning.  It  was  a  wonderful  stormy  sunset ; 
St.  Peter's  and  the  piazza  seen  in  this  ferment 
of  light  and  shadow  recalled  a  curious  allegorical 
design  of  Bernini's,  in  which  the  two  curving 
wings  of  his  colonnade  are  made  to  suggest  the 
arms  of  Christ's  Vicar,  spread  out  to  enfold  the 
world,  Angelo's  dome  being  worked  in  as  a  sort 
of  papal  tiara  floating  over  the  whole. 


291 


iti 


XIII 
THE  QUEEN'S  VISIT 

Palazzo  Rusticucci,  Rome,  Easter,  1900. 

"  BuoNA  Pasqua  ! "  said  Filomena,  when  we 
came  into  breakfast  this  morning.  Her  Easter 
offering  lay  on  the  table,  two  hard-boiled  eggs 
in  a  little  basket  of  twisted  bread  at  each  plate. 
Soon  after,  Pompilia  brought  her  inevitable  re- 
galo,  a  pair  of  lilac  tissue  paper  fans  (she  has  a 
relative  who  works  in  the  paper  factory).  As  I 
passed  the  door  Pompilia's  annual  basket  of 
flowers,  sent  by  her  cousins  every  Easter,  was 
brought  in.  Ignazio,  the  gardener,  met  us  on  the 
terrace  with  a  pot  of  the  biggest  violets  I  have 
ever  seen. 

"  Only  yourself,  Signora,  and  the  Princess 
Doria,  in  all  Rome,  have  these  magnificent  vio- 
lets, the  last  novelty  from  Londra.  The  Prince 
has  just  introduced  them.  His  gardener  is  my 
friend ;  cosi  I  am  able  to  offer  this  beV  vasino 
di  Jiori !  " 

A    little    later,   Lorenzo,  Villegas'  factotum, 

292 


THE  QUEEN'S   VISIT 

arrived  with  a  basket  of  lemons  from  the  Villino 
garden,  covered  with  their  own  glossy  green 
leaves  and  intoxicating  blossoms  ;  the  petals  are 
thick,  pink  outside,  white  inside,  like  orange 
flowers,  only  larger,  and  with  a  less  cloying 
perfume.  ^ 

We  were  up  on  the  terrace  in  time  to  see  the 
Host  carried  through  the  street ;  that  was  not 
allowed  when  we  first  came  to  live  in  the  Borgo 
Nuovo.  Little  by  little  the  old  picturesque 
ceremonies  of  the  Church  are  creeping  back. 
It  is  a  pretty  sight.  First  march  lovely  httle 
girls  in  white,  scattering  flowers ;  then  come 
acolytes,  deacons,  young  clerics  —  I  am  hazy 
about  their  titles  —  swinging  censers,  carrying 
the  crucifix  and  banner ;  the  arch-priest  bearing 
the  Sacrament  in  a  golden  monstrance,  over 
which  he  holds  protectingly  the  sides  of  his  long, 
stiff,  embroidered  vestment,  above  his  head  a 
white  and  gold  haldacchino  supported  by  four 
young  priests.  The  whole  procession,  children, 
acolytes,  priests,  attendant  women  in  black  veils, 
went  singing  across  the  piazza  of  St.  Peter's  and 
down  our  street  under  a  rain  of  pink  and  green 
disks  of  tissue  paper  thrown  from  the  windows 
in  lieu  of  flowers.     Across  the  street  Giuseppe, 

293 


ROMA  BEATA 

the  baker,  in  white  cap  and  drawers,  naked  to 
the  waist,  stood  at  his  shop  door  cooHng  his 
heated  body.  Behind  him  in  the  dark  shop  as 
the  boy  opened  the  oven  door  and  fed  the  flame 
with  armfuls  of  brushwood,  we  caught  the  roar 
and  blaze  of  fagots  in  a  fiery  cavern. 

Giuseppe,  a  radical  (the  parroco  says  a  Free- 
mason, that  means  sure  damnation)  stood  at  his 
door  as  the  procession  passed  and  nodded  to  his 
little  girl,  the  prettiest  of  the  attendant  cherubim, 
dropping  rosebuds.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  one's 
daughter  chosen  before  others,  and  religion  is  an 
excellent  thing  in  woman,  according  to  Giu- 
seppe's philosophy.  The  crisp,  appetizing  smell 
of  his  hot  bread  suggested  luncheon,  which,  in 
honor  of  ihQ  festa^  was  served  on  the  terrace. 
The  atmosphere  has  been  ecstatically  clear  and 
golden  all  day,  the  view  sublime,  snow-clad 
peaks  in  the  distance,  the  foreground  purple, 
hazy,  delicious.  The  bells  of  St.  Peter's  (silent 
since  Holy  Thursday)  have  made  constant  music 
in  the  air.  A  fine  day,  with  a  trifle  too  much 
breeze  for  dignity ;  it  blows  the  girls'  curls  and 
draperies,  even  the  scant  skirts  of  the  young 
priest  pacing  back  and  forth  on  the  monastery 
terrace   across  the  way,  breviary  in  hand.     He 

294 


THE  QUEEN'S  VISIT 

always  ignores  our  presence,  looks  through  us 
as  if  we  were  made  of  glass ;  but  I  catch  him 
gazing  with  longing  eyes  at  our  roses  and  lilies 
that  nod  and  gossip  behind  their  screen  of  ivy ; 
at  the  passion  flowers  and  honeysuckles,  haunts 
of  the  bee  and  butterfly.  He  knows  as  w^ll  as 
we  do  every  stage  of  our  roof  garden's  history 
since  that  day  six  years  ago  when  we  potted  the 
pink  ivy  geranium  and  the  white  carnation  from 
the  Campo  di  Fiori,  the  beginning  of  this  earthly 
paradise.  We  have  had  a  gi'eat  deal  of  rain 
lately,  which  has  been  good  for  the  yellow  and 
orange-colored  lichens  that  enamel  the  tiled 
roofs  all  about  us,  and  alas  1  very  good  for  slugs 
and  snails.  As  to  wall  flowers,  they  simply  ramp 
from  every  crack  and  cranny  of  the  gorgeous 
cinque  cento  cornice,  with  its  sharp-cut  egg  and 
dart  (symbols  of  life  and  death),  fragments  of 
which  still  cling  to  the  inner  walls  of  our  court- 
yard. The  wild  flowers  run  riot  over  the  Corri- 
dojo  di  Castello,  the  quaint  old  fortified  passage 
leading  from  the  Vatican  to  the  Castel  Sant' 
Angelo.  The  Corridojo,  built  of  tufa  stone,  is 
two  stories  high ;  the  upper  story  is  open  like  a 
loggia,  the  lower  closed,  with  little  slits  to  let 
in  the  light.     Just  behind  our  Palazzo  the  Cor- 

995 


ROMA  BEATA 

ridojo  crosses  a  back  street  by  an  enchanting 
arch,  with  the  arms  of  the  Pope  who  built  or 
restored  it  carved  on  a  stone  escutcheon.  In  the 
old  days  the  passage  was  used  in  time  of  danger 
as  an  escape  from  the  Vatican  to  the  fortress  of 
Sant'  Angelo  ;  the  Pope  himself  always  kept  the 
keys,  according  to  Patsy,  who  dropped  in  for  tea 
and  maritozzi  and  gave  us  a  discourse  on  the 
subject. 

"  Who  keeps  the  keys  now  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Chi  lo  sa  ?  Since  1870  the  Corridojo  has 
been  walled  up.  I  once  got  a  peep  into  it.  'T  is 
going  to  wrack  and  ruin,  which  is  a  shame  and 
disgrace." 

"Whose  fault  is  it?" 

"  CM  lo  sa  ?  Lay  it  to  the  municipality,  — 
they  deserve  a  few  extra  curses  thrown  in  for 
luck,  on  account  of  the  artificial  rockwork  with 
which  they  are  defacing  the  Pincio  and  the 
Janiculum." 

"  Perhaps  the  Corridojo  is  no-man's-land,  now 
that  the  Vatican  belongs  to  the  Pope  and  the 
fortress  to  the  King  ? " 

"  Chi  lo  sa  ?  "  said  Patsy  again.  "  When  the 
Italians  came  to  Rome  they  meant  to  leave  the 
Borgo  under  the  temporal  control  of  the  papacy. 

296 


THE  QUEEN'S  VISIT 

Consequently  at  the  first  plebiscite  (October  2, 
1870)  no  urn  was  provided  for  the  Borgo's  vote. 
You  don't  suppose  a  fellow  Uke  that,"  he  pointed 
to  the  baker,  "  would  let  such  a  little  thing  keep 
him  out  of  United  Italy  ?  The  first  returns  of  the 
day  were  brought  in  from  this,  the  fourteenth, 
rione  (ward),  by  two  strapping  fellows,  who 
marched  up  to  the  Capitol  carrying  between  them 
a  big  urn  with  the  votes  from  the  Borgo.  I  have 
heard  that  your  friend  the  baker's  father  was  one 
of  them." 

"  And  this  morning  that  man's  granddaughter 
walked  in  the  procession  of  the  Sacrament !  " 

*'  For  the  matter  of  that,  here  comes  Prince 
Nero's  grandson  wearing  the  King's  uniform. 
Both  Blacks  and  Whites,  Dio  grazie,  are  fast 
fading  into  Grays." 

Beppino,  very  stiff  in  his  mihtary  togs,  was 
shown  up  on  the  terrace  by  Nena  the  shabby, 
who  always  manages  to  open  the  door  to  fashion- 
able visitors. 

"  How  do  you  like  your  service,  Beppino  ? 
Your  uniform  is  very  becoming,"  I  began. 

"  I  don't  like  it  at  all  I  Fancy  being  obliged 
to  clean  one's  own  horse,  to  polish  one's  own 
boots  —  it 's  not  to  be  endured  1 " 

297 


ROMA  BEATA 

It  has  to  be  endured  ;  and,  moreover,  Beppino 
is  enormously  improved  by  his  six  months'  en- 
durance of  the  obhgatory  military  service.  Those 
fiery  brown  eyes  of  his  have  grown  serious. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  voted  at  the  last 
election  ? "  asked  Patsy. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Beppino. 

"  How  did  your  grandfather  take  it  ?  "  Patsy 
persisted. 

"  I  asked  the  Prince's  leave,"  Beppino  replied. 
"He  said  that  for  thirty  years  he  had  obeyed 
the  Pope  and  abstained  from  voting,  that  he  was 
too  old  to  change  his  politics,  but  that  I  was  free 
to  do  as  I  liked." 

"  How  do  you  account  for  such  an  extraor- 
dinary change  of  heart?" 

"  It 's  all  the  Queen's  doing ;  she  is  so  good  ; 
she  is  so  clever.  We  Italians  owe  more  to  her 
than  to  any  one  alive  to-day ! " 

Beppino  is  the  son  of  the  son  of  one  of  the 
stoutest  pillars  of  the  Church. 

"  Avanti  la  caccia  (On  with  the  chase)  I " 
Patsy  and  I  had  been  snail  hunting  when 
Beppino  came  up. 

"  Here  is  a  sharp  stick ;  if  you  run  it  round 
under  the  edge  of  the  flower-pot  you  will  get 

298 


THE   QUEEN'S   VISIT 

them  quicker.  Snail,  I  condemn  you  to  the 
parabolic  death ! "  Beppino  threw  a  large  fat 
snail  out  over  the  terrace  wall.  "  That 's  the 
easiest  way ;  it  spares  our  feelings  and  gives 
the  snail  a  chance  for  his  life.  He  disappears 
in  a  parabolic  curve  ;  he  may  fall  upon  a  passing 
load  of  hay  and  be  carried  away  to  batten  upon 
other  rose-leaves." 

Suddenly,  like  thunder  out  of  a  clear  sky, 
there  appeared  upon  the  peaceful  terrace  the 
parroco,  with  two  black-a-vised  French  priests, 
preceded  and  announced  by  Nena.  The  par- 
roco  apologized  ;  he  said  the  gentlemen  were 
anxious  to  see  our  view.  The  elder  Frenchman 
never  looked  at  the  view  at  all,  but  examined 
the  walls  of  the  palace  in  a  way  I  did  not  like. 
The  parroco  is  always  a  welcome,  if  scarcely  an 
easy  guest.  I  hated  his  friends ;  they  glanced 
with  so  indifferent  an  eye  at  the  flowers  and 
seemed  so  much  more  interested  in  the  chimneys 
that  J.  and  Lorenzo  had  cleverly  contrived  to 
keep  me  warm.  When  at  last  the  three  black 
figures  disappeared  down  the  terrace  stairs,  we 
other  three  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Good  riddance,"  said  Patsy. 

"  You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  their  cassocks 
299 


KOMA  BEATA 

nor  them,"  said  Beppino  (he  had  an  Enghsh 
nurse  and  governess,  and  speaks  rather  better 
Enghsh  than  most  people).  "  I  beheve  they 
mean  to  buy  the  palazzo  over  your  heads. 
When  vi^ill  your  lease  be  up  ? " 

"  In  September  ;  but  we  have  the  right  to 
renew." 

"  No  Roman  lease  holds  in  case  of  sale,"  said 
Beppino.  "  You  will  find  that  clause  in  your 
contract.  You  will  see  I  am  right.  Some  time 
ago  Sua  Santita  requested  such  religious  orders 
as  had  no  house  in  Rome  to  establish  one  here. 
During  the  Anno  Santo  many  have  acted  on  the 
hint  and  bought  property  in  Rome.  I  heard  my 
grandfather  say  there  were  some  French  monks 
looking  out  for  a  place  near  the  Vatican.  This 
is  just  the  sort  of  thing  that  would  suit  them." 

Was  not  that  a  thunder  clap  ?  Characteristic 
too  that  Beppino,  the  astute  Roman,  should  first 
suspect  it.  When  J.  came  home  from  the 
studio  and  heard  of  the  priests'  visit,  he  said: 
"  Beppino  is  right ;  the  Palazzo  Rusticucci  will 
be  transformed  into  a  monastery.  They  have 
already  turned  Mr.  Vedder  out  of  his  studio  after 
twenty  years  ;  we  shall  be  the  next  to  go." 

I  can't  and  won't  believe  that  this  may  be  our 

300 


THE   QUEEN'S   VISIT 

last  Easter  here.  Just  as  terrace  and  house 
have  grown  to  fit  us  like  soul  and  body,  to  be 
turned  out  into  the  bare,  ugly  world  of  hotels,  — 
impossible  I 

The  other  day  when  I  was  at  the  studio  J. 
told  me  that  in  consequence  of  the  disajppear- 
ance  of  ten  francs  he  had  finally  decided  to 
part  with  Pietro.  He  has  often  arrived  at  this 
decision  before,  but  the  creature,  with  a  sort  of 
uncanny  second  sight,  always  disarms  him  just 
in  time  by  some  act  of  faithfulness,  some  pretty 
attention  ;  for  Pietro  is  one  of  those  ItaUans 
with  a  real  genius  for  service.  I  happened  to  be 
at  the  studio  when  he  applied  to  J.  for  the  place 
and  overheard  their  conversation. 

"  Signorino,"  Pietro  began,  "  you  are  my 
unique  hope  ;  do  not  abandon  me,  the  poor  dis- 
graziato  you  have  befriended  so  long :  I  regard 
you  as  my  father."  (Pietro  is  at  least  twenty 
years  older  than  J.) 

"  Where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ? "  J. 
asked. 

"  Signorino,  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  or  some  unsympathetic  person  might 
do  so :  I  have  been  in  prison,  though  I  am  quite 
innocent." 

SOI 


ROMA   BEATA 

"  What  were  you  charged  with  ?  " 

"  It  was  that  aifair  with  Fagiolo  the  model ; 
you  perhaps  remember." 

"  The  time  you  bit  Fagiolo  in  the  leg  and 
gave  him  such  a  coltellata  (stab)  that  he  had  to 
be  sent  to  San  Giacomo  (the  hospital)?  I 
remember." 

"  La  storia  era  molto  esaggerata,  per 6  non  po- 
tevo  mai  vedere  quelFuomo  (The  story  was  much 
exaggerated,  but  I  never  could  bear  the  sight  of 
that  man)." 

J.  remembered  the  affair,  and  thought  Pietro 
had  been  rather  hardly  dealt  with. 

"  Since  I  was  discharged  it  is  impossible  to 
find  employment ;  nobody  wants  a  man,  however 
innocent,  who  has  been  in  prison." 

"  Where  is  your  wife  ?  " 

"  Aime  !  was  there  ever  so  unfortunate  a  man  ? 
Zenobia,  who,  as  you  know,  is  a  good  seamstress 
and  my  sole  means  of  support,  broke  her  leg 
yesterday ;  this  morning  they  carried  her  to  the 
hospital  of  the  Santo  Spirito." 

J.  engaged  him  on  the  spot,  and  Pietro  has 
been  in  charge  of  the  studio  ever  since.  He  has 
done  very  well ;  the  only  trouble  has  been  that 
small  sums  of  money,  cigarettes,  and   boxes  of 

302 


THE   QUEEN'S  VISIT 

matches  are  always  disappearing.  J.  has  spoken 
several  times  to  Pietro  about  it.  He  always 
denies  having  taken  anything.  J.  feels  very  half 
hearted  about  sending  him  away ;  he  says  that  it 
will  be  impossible  for  the  man  to  get  another  sit- 
uation if  he  dismisses  him  for  stealing.  Bfesides, 
except  for  the  pilfering,  Pietro  is  the  very  man 
for  the  place ;  he  takes  good  care  of  the  studio, 
knows  all  about  cleaning  palettes  and  washing 
brushes,  keeps  the  courtyard  neat  and  full  of 
such  growing  things  as  can  exist  with  the  little 
sun  that  penetrates  to  it,  and  is  devoted  to  J.'s 
happy  family,  which  just  now  consists  of  Checca, 
the  lame  jackdaw,  bought  from  some  boys  in  the 
street  who  were  tormenting  her,  a  pair  of  ducks,  a 
stray  black  dog,  and  the  prettiest  maltese  kitten 
you  ever  saw. 

The  jackdaw,  a  most  diverting  bird,  is  as  cu- 
rious as  a  coon.  The  other  day  she  flew  up  on 
the  easel  from  behind  and  pecked  a  hole  in  the 
picture  on  which  J.  was  working.  She  put  her 
closed  bill  through  the  canvas,  then  opened  it 
wide,  which  made  a  straight  up  and  down  tear, 
to  which  the  creature  put  her  ridiculous  eye  and 
peeped  through  to  see  what  J.  was  doing. 

"  Do  you  really  think  Pietro  is  the  thief  ? "     I 

S03 


ROMA  BEATA 

asked.    "  It  would  be  too  suicidal  in  him  to  throw 
away  his  last  chance  I " 

"  Just  what  Pietro  says,"  answered  J.,  "  but 
who  else  can  it  be  ?  There  is  a  Yale  lock  to  the 
door  with  two  keys ;  1  keep  one,  Pietro  the 
other." 

While  we  were  talking  about  him,  Pietro 
came  in  to  move  an  old  stove  which  had  stood 
in  the  corner  of  the  studio  all  winter  without 
being  lighted.  J.  is  sending  it  with  other  house- 
hold stuff  to  the  auction  room.  As  Pietro 
moved  the  stove  its  door  swung  open  and  out 
rolled  a  quantity  of  cigarettes,  matches,  silver  and 
copper  coin,  paint  rags,  orange  peel,  and  among 
the  rubbish  a  brand  new  ten-franc  note. 

"  Caw,  Caw  !  "  screamed  Checca,  flapping  across 
the  floor  and  scolding  at  Pietro. 

''Ah!  Madonna  dei  setti  dolonf  Pietro, 
swearing  horribly,  fell  upon  his  knees,  clasped  his 
hands,  invoked  every  holy  thing  he  knew. 

"  Santa  Maria,  eccomi  vindicato  !  Ah  ladrone! 
Ah  birhorne  (Behold  me  vindicated.  O  thief!  O 
villain)  ! " 

"  Caw,  Caw ! "  screamed  Checca,  pecking  at 
Pietro's  legs.  He  was  at  first  ready  to  wring  her 
neck ;  then  he  grew  lachrymose  and  tender. 

304 


THE   QUEEN'S   VISIT 

'*Ah  !  Ah  !  Pietro  sfortunato  I  Guardi,  Signora 
juia,  was  I  not  born  unlucky  ?  First  I  am  sent 
to  prison  on  the  false  oath  of  a  rascally  man. 
Adesso,  anche  la  gazza  mHnganna^  mi  perseguita^ 
(Now  even  the  jackdaw  deceives  me,  persecutes 
me) ! " 

Plumped  down  on  his  knees  there  in  the  middle 
of  the  studio,  poor  Pietro  began  to  cry  like  a  baby. 
It  ended  in  his  getting  the  ten-franc  note  as  a 
mancia,  and  Checca's  being  so  stuffed  with  good 
things  that  she  is  in  a  state  of  coma  and  on  the 
verge  of  apoplexy.  Truth  really  is  stranger  than 
fiction.  I  never  before  had  much  faith  in  the 
Jackdaw  of  Rheims. 

June  10,  1900. 

As  we  sat  at  dinner  last  night  a  messenger 
from  the  Casa  Reale  was  announced.  J.  went 
out  to  receive  him  in  person.  He  had  brought 
a  letter  from  a  great  personage  at  court  to 
say  that  the  Queen  would  come  to  the  studio 
the  next  day  to  see  J.'s  decoration  for  the 
Boston  Public  Library.  That  was  rather  short 
notice  for  such  an  honor,  but  we  did  all  we  could 
to  make  the  old  barrack  of  a  studio  fit  to  receive 
the  dear  and  lovely  lady.     We  were  up  at  dawn. 

20  305 


ROMA  BEATA 

Pietro  had  already  turned  the  hose  an  the  brick 
paved  floors  and  stone  steps.  The  first  thing  in 
the  morning  we  were  warned  by  the  police  that 
no  one,  not  even  our  servants,  must  know  of  the 
visit  beforehand,  so  we  gave  it  out  that  Lord 
Curry,  the  British  Ambassador,  was  coming  to 
the  studio,  which  was  quite  true.  J.  had  called 
up  the  Embassy,  and  Lord  Curry  had  promised, 
by  telephone,  to  be  on  hand. 

We  telephoned  the  Signora  Villegas  asking 
if  she  could  spare  Lorenzo,  who  turned  up  at 
eleven  with,  I  should  think,  every  flower  the 
Villino  garden  contained.  The  bouquet  for  the 
Queen  I  made  myself  of  flowers  from  the  terrace, 
gardenias,  passion  flowers,  and  maidenhair  fern. 
We  sent  over  to  the  studio  from  the  house  the 
fine  old  Portuguese  leather  armchair  in  which 
my  mother  sat  to  Villegas  for  her  portrait^  some 
rugs,  and  the  gold  screens  Isabel  and  Larz 
brought  us  from  Japan. 

You  never  saw  a  more  squalid  street  than  the 
Borgo  Sant'  Angelo.  I  very  much  doubt  if  the 
Queen  had  ever  entered  so  queer  a  door  as 
the  little  antique  green  studio  door  with  the 
modern  Yale  lock.  The  studio  is  up  two  long 
flights  of  stairs,  with  an  iron  raihng,  quite  like 

306 


THE  QUEEN'S  VISIT 

a  prison  stair.  If  we  had  been  given  longer 
notice  we  could  have  done  more  to  make  things 
presentable ;  but  that  was  a  mere  detail.  The 
main  thing  was  that  the  afternoon  was  fine,  the 
light  perfect.  The  days  here  are  so  much  longer 
than  at  home  that  the  hour  named,  six  oVilock, 
was  the  very  best  in  the  twenty-four  to  see  the 
pictures.  We  had  never  really  believed  that  the 
Queen  would  come  to  the  studio,  though  we 
had  heard  of  her  interest  in  seeing  the  work. 
There  is  a  sort  of  tradition  that  the  royal  family 
very  rarely  come  over  to  the  Borgo,  out  of  regard 
for  the  feelings  of  the  Pope.  During  the  day 
one  and  another  secret  service  man  in  plain 
clothes  arrived  in  the  Borgo  on  their  bicycles, 
and  lounged  about  the  street  corners  or  in 
the  caf^s.  At  five  several  guar  die  in  uniform 
arrived.  We  went  over  to  the  studio  at  half- 
past  five  in  order  to  be  in  time  to  receive  Lord 
Curry.  J.  went  by  the  Borgo  Nuovo  and 
stopped  at  the  front  of  the  Palazzo  Ciiraud 
Torlonia  (the  studio,  you  remember,  is  in  the 
rear  of  the  palace,  with  an  entrance  on  the  back 
street,  Borgo  Sant'  Angelo)  to  ask  the  proud 
young  porter  of  the  Torlonia  to  open  the  studio 
door,  and  generally  stand  by  us.     The  Haywards, 

307 


ROMA   BEATA 

who  live  on  the  piano  nobile,  are  the  swells  of 
the  Borgo  ;  they  pay  the  proud  young  porter  his 
wages,  and  they  are  in  close  relation  with  the 
Vatican.  Fortunately  they  were  out  of  town 
and  never  knew  that  we  borrowed  their  porter 
to  open  the  door  to  the  Queen. 

"  The  A  mbasciatore  Inglese  and  other  per- 
sonnaggi  of  importance  are  to  visit  my  studio 
presently  ;  do  me  the  favor  to  open  the  door  for 
them,"  said  J. 

"  Volontiere,  Signore  mio,  un  momento ;  T  wiU 
change  my  coat  and  be  with  you  instantly  !  " 

The  nearest  way  from  the  front  of  the  Torlonia 
to  the  back  is  by  the  Vicolo  dell'  Erba,  a  narrow 
little  alley  which  runs  beside  the  palace.  We 
never  use  it  —  't  is  so  evil  smelling,  badly  paved, 
and  generally  poverty  stricken  —  unless  we  are 
in  a  great  hurry.  J.  being  pressed  for  time  natu- 
rally took  the  vicolo.  He  happened  to  be  wear- 
ing a  red  cravat,  —  in  Italy,  especially  in  Rome, 
supposed  to  be  the  badge  of  the  anarchists  and 
avoided  by  the  Romans,  and,  one  would  fancy, 
by  the  anarchists  accordingly.  Of  course  all  the 
guardie  of  our  quarter  know  the  pittore  Inglese 
by  sight,  but  the  extra  ones  detailed  for  the 
day  did    not.      Hurrying    through    the   vicolo^ 

308 


THE   QUEEN'S   VISIT 

J.  ran  round  the  corner  into  the  Borgo  Sant' 
Angelo,  and  into  the  arms  of  one  of  these  ex- 
traneous guardie^  ordered  to  be  on  the  lookout 
for  suspicious  characters.  His  eye  caught  the 
red  cravat. 

'' Scusiy  Signore ;  where  might  you  be  ^oing 
in  such  a  hurry  ? " 

"  I  am  going  to  No.  125,  Borgo  Sant'  Angelo." 

"You  have  business  of  importance  there,  or 
you  would  not  be  in  so  much  haste  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  late  for  an  appointment." 

"  With  whom  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  private  matter  and  one  which  does 
not  concern " 

At  this  hectic  moment  the  proud  young  porter 
came  hurrying  along  the  vicolo,  buttoning  his 
gold-laced  coat  as  he  ran.  He  took  in  the 
situation  at  a  glance,  and  with  the  exquisite 
tact  of  his  people  went  bail  for  the  pittore 
Inglesc  without  seeming  to  do  so. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  in  the 
studio,  Signore,  before  their  excellencies  arrive  ? " 
he  asked. 

"  You  know  this  gentleman  ? "  demanded  the 
guardia  suspiciously. 

"  Know  him  I     I  have  known  him  all  my  life  1 

309 


ROMA  BEATA 

It  is  the  gentleman  who  occupies  the  studio  in 
the  rear  of  the  palace." 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  Signore,"  said  the  guar- 
dia,  with  a  magnificent  miUtary  salute.  J.  had 
to  thank  the  porter  for  not  having  been  detained 
as  "  a  suspicious  person  "  during  the  time  of  the 
Queen's  visit  to  his  studio. 

A  minute  or  two  before  the  appointed  hour 
we  all  went  down  into  the  vestibule.  There  was 
an  odd  hushed  feeling  in  the  street :  a  watering 
cart  had  just  passed,  the  square  gray  cobble-stones 
were  still  wet,  the  air  moist.  Pietro  had  found 
time  to  pull  up  the  weeds  and  grass  from  the 
pavement  (worn  into  ruts  by  centuries  of  cart- 
wheels) in  front  of  our  door,  and  to  clear  away  the 
bits  of  water-melon  rind  which  the  boys  of  the 
Borgo  use  as  roller  skates,  in  a  game  that  I  believe 
is  indigenous  to  our  quarter.  Just  as  the  bells  of 
the  Castle  Sant'  Angelo  were  ringing  six,  we  heard 
the  jingling  of  chains  and  the  sound  of  tramping 
horses.  We  were  all  on  the  sidewalk  as  the  car- 
riage with  the  scarlet  liveries  drew  up  before  the 
studio.  The  proud  young  porter,  his  hand  on 
the  knob  of  the  studio  door,  made  the  most  sump- 
tuous bow  as  the  footman  opened  the  door  of  the 
landeau.      Lord  Curry  handed  out  the  Queen, 

310 


Dante 

From  •  pMtal  drawing  in  the  Collection  of  Mrs.  Dftvid  Kimb«U 


■a   I, (it:  ^:^uui  - 

Lite.    X  1 
4  beendeta 
he  time  of  tin 

le  appointed    houi 


•  hafl  found 
is  and 

centuries  oi  ciul 
Hilt'  ilto  cl( 

^^'f^-  .    .ch  the  i.  .^  ,  ,  .   a*v. 

n  game  that  I  believe 
fust  as  the  bells  of 
rig  six,  ; 

sound  of  tramping 
"^alk  as  the  cai- 
"-  -    ' "^  >  t  vv  up  before  tht 

The  T  orter,  his  hfind  nu 

dethe  most  SI 
nedthedoc 
d  out  the  ' 


'f^ 


From  a  Copley  Print.    Copyright,  1899,  by  Curtis  &  Cameron,  Publishers,  Bosto 


THE  QUEEN'S  VISIT 

presented  J.,  then  gave  her  his  arm  and  led  her 
up  the  dreadful  long  stair.  Her  lady  in  waiting, 
the  Duchess  Massimo,  and  the  gentleman  of  the 
court  in  attendance,  followed,  looking  aghast  and 
rather  scornful  at  the  queer  steps  ;  but  the  royal 
lady  never  flinched ;  she  walked  up  the  stairway 
with  as  gay  ^d  hght  a  step  as  if  she  were  treading 
the  red  carpet  of  the  Quirinale.  Once  in  the  studio 
one  lost  sight  of  the  royal  personage  in  the  con- 
noisseur, the  lover  and  patron  of  art.  It  is  no 
wonder  that  the  artists  look  upon  her  as  their 
friend.  To  her  art  is  one  of  the  serious  concerns 
of  life,  one  of  the  matters  which  it  is  her  duty  as 
a  sovereign,  as  the  mother  of  her  people,  to  foster 
by  every  means  in  her  power. 

She  looked  at  the  decoration  from  every  point 
of  view,  asked  many  questions  about  its  desti- 
nation. She  knew  of  the  Boston  Public  Library, 
and  said  many  pleasant  things  of  it,  and  of  J.'s 
ceiling  for  it.  She  liked  the  funny  old  studio, 
with  its  big  fireplace,  its  enormous  window,  and 
explored  it  with  the  fresh  curiosity  of  a  young 
girl.  She  asked  what  this  and  what  that  picture 
was,  insisted  on  being  shown  canvases  that  stood 
with  their  faces  to  the  wall.  J.'s  drawing  of 
Dante  and  the  death  mask  from  which  it  was 

311 


ROMA  BEATA 

made  interested  her  deeply ;  she  is  evidently  a 
student  of  the  divine  poet.  The  portrait  of  the 
Duke  of  Cambridge  which  J.  made  last  spring 
was  standing  on  an  easel.  She  laughed  heartily 
when  she  saw  it,  and  said,  "  It  is  so  exactly  like 
the  old4nan  that  it  makes  me  laugh." 

They  stayed  half  an  hour.  Part  of  that  time 
the  Queen  sat  in  the  old  Portuguese  leather  chair 
which  our  own  dear  mother  queen  always  sat 
in  when  she  was  with  us.  As  they  went  away, 
the  Duchess  Massimo  said  to  me,  "  I  assure  you 
the  Queen  has  been  much  interested  and  much 
pleased." 

We  all  went  down  to  the  carriage  ;  the  Borgo 
was  one  compact  mass  of  people.  We  watched 
the  carriage  drive  away,  caught  the  sweet  parting 
smile  of  our  lovely  visitor,  and  then  went  back 
to  the  studio  to  talk  it  all  over.  In  a  few  minutes 
two  of  our  best  friends  turned  up.  They  had 
come  over  by  chance  to  have  tea  at  the  studio, 
and  had  received  quite  a  sensation  at  seeing  the 
royal  carriage  with  the  scarlet  liveries  standing 
before  the  shabby  old  green  door  and  the  Borgo 
crammed  with  the  Roman  populace. 


312 


THE  QUEEN'S   VISIT 

July  16,  1900. 

Saturday  evening  as  we  sat  at  dinner  another 
messenger  from  the  Casa  Reale  was  announced. 
He,  brought  a  letter  from  the  Countess  Vil- 
lamarina,  the  Queen's  maid  of  honor,  to  J.,  in 
which  she  begged  to  send  him,  in  the  name  of 
her  "  august  sovereign,"  the  accompanying  jewel 
for  his  wife,  in  memory  of  her  ^visit  to  the  studio. 
The  jewel  is  a  medallion  of  dark  blue  enamel, 
with  M.,  the  Queen's  initial,  in  diamonds,  with  a 
royal  crown  above  it.  On  the  reverse  are  the 
arms  of  Savoy,  the  red  cross  on  the  white  field, 
the  whole  surrounded  by  a  hoop  of  diamonds 
hanging  from  a  bar  of  diamonds,  set  as  a  brooch, 
and  very  elegant. 

J.  says  that  we  cannot  afford  to  stay  in  the 
Borgo  if  we  remain  in  Rome,  we  must  move  to 
a  new  quarter.  Ever  since  the  Queen's  visit,  the 
gohhoy  our  favorite  cabby,  has  called  him  Signor 
Marchese,  and  expects  a  larger  viajicia  than  he 
can  afford  to  give. 


313 


XIV 

STRAWBERRIES   OF  NEMI 

Lake  of  Nemi,  July  8,  1900. 

The  fruttajola  of  the  Piazza  San  Lorenzo  in 
Lucina,  and  the  waiter  of  the  Cafe  di  Roma  are 
responsible  for  our  coming  to  Nemi.  I  Hke  to 
Hnger  chaffering  in  the  fruttajola  s  shop  (at  this 
season  it  smells  of  strawberries  and  apricots)  not 
only  because  she  has  the  best  fruit  in  Rome  but 
because  she  has  three  of  the  prettiest  daughters 
—  the  youngest  looks  as  the  Fornarina,  the 
baker's  daughter  beloved  of  Raphael,  might  have 
looked.  When  the  fruttajola  was  young  she 
must  have  been  even  handsomer  than  her 
daughters,  though  their  cheeks  seem  like 
duplicates  of  the  peaches  and  nectarines  they 
handle  so  daintily ;  she  has  an  intensity  of  ex- 
pression, a  look  of  power  that  none  of  her  girls 
have. 

*'  You  tell  me  these  strawberries  are  from 
Nemi,"  I  said  ;  "  how  is  that  possible  ?  For  the 
past  month  you  have  sold  me  strawberries  from 

314 


STRAWBERRIES   OF  NEMI 

Nemi,  always  from  Nemi !  All  over  Rome  I  see 
the  strawberries  of  Nemi  advertised.  Is  it  likely 
now  that  a  little  town  like  Nemi  can  supply  such 
a  great  city  as  Rome  with  strawberries  all  these 
many  weeks  ? " 

You  see  I  remembered  what  the  Tuscan  wine 
grower  said  to  us  about  the  wine  of  Chianti. 
Thefrzittajola  tossed  her  handsome  head.  "  Sig- 
nora,  you  have  but  to  see  Nemi  to  understand  I " 
she  said,  laying  on  the  counter  a  little  blue  paper 
box  she  had  been  making  and  lining  with  grape 
leaves  as  she  talked  and  which  she  now  filled 
with  purple  figs  and  yellow  nespole.  That  night, 
wishing  to  give  our  servants  "  an  evening  off," 
we  dined  at  the  Caf^  di  Roma.  Of  course  we 
had  the  inevitable  dishes  of  this  season,  chicken, 
hunter's  fashion  (braised,  with  green  peppers),  salad 
of  tomato  and  endive,  finishing  off  with  straw- 
berries from  Nemi,  and  of  course  the  cream  was 
too  thin.  J.  asked  Leandro,  the  waiter  who 
always  serves  us,  if  it  was  not  possible  to  get 
better  cream.  He  has  often  asked  the  same 
question  before. 

"  Signore,  "  said  Leandro,  "  this  cream  comes 
from  the  dairy  next  door.  We  always  order  the 
best  for  you,  and   this   is   what  they  send  us. 

315 


ROMA  BEATA 

Why  do  you  not  yourself  step  in  and  speak  to 
the  proprietor?  He  will  take  more  pains  for 
you  than  for  me."  Pricked  by  memories  of  Jer- 
sey cream  which  those  ravishing  strawberries 
evoked,  J.  sought  the  padrone  of  the  dairy. 

"  Is  it  not  possible  to  have  thicker  cream  than 
that  you  send  to  the  restaurant  ? "  he  asked. 
The  man  looked  surprised.  "  The  Signore  de- 
sires thicker  cream  ?  Why,  of  course,  it  is  pos- 
sible to  have  the  cream  as  thick  as  he  wishes, 
only  have  a  moment's  patience."  As  he  spoke 
the  padrone  took  up  a  fine  hair  sieve,  put  into  it 
a  lump  of  some  soft  white  stuff  which  he  mashed 
with  a  big  spoon  into  a  paste ;  this  he  passed 
through  the  sieve,  every  now  and  then  letting  a 
few  drops  fall  out  of  the  spoon  to  show  how 
thick  the  cream  had  become. 

"  Is  that  thick  enough,  Signore  ? "  he  finally 
asked. 

"  Quite  thick  enough,  thank  you,"  said  poor  J. 
grimly.  "  Will  you  do  me  the  favor  of  telling 
me  what  you  use  to  thicken  the  cream  ? " 

"  But  surely  !  Various  things  are  used  ;  the 
best  is  this  that  you  see,  the  brains  of  a  young 
calf  nicely  boiled." 

When  J.  came  back  to  the  restam'ant  he  said 
31^ 


STR/VWBERRIES   OF  NEMI 

that,  on  the  whole,  he  preferred  his  strawberries 
with  wine  and  sugar,  as  the  Romans  eat  them. 
The  waiter  pushed  a  flask  hung  on  a  swivel 
towards  him ;  J.  drowned  his  plate  in  a  flood 
of  red  Genzano.  Isn't  it  odd  that  in  Roman 
restaurants  wine  is  sold  by  weight?  Leandro 
weighed  the  flask  before  putting  it  on  the  tabic, 
and  again  when  he  took  it  off*  after  dinner. 

In  order  to  make  conversation  I  said,  "  Lean- 
dro, do  you  know  where  these  strawberries  really 
come  from  ? " 

*'  Do  I  know  ?  They  are  from  my  own  town, 
it  may  be  from  our  own  land !  the  proprietor  of 
this  restaurant  buys  oil,  fruit,  and  wine  of  my 
uncle,  who  lives  at  Nemi.  I  myself  have  a  httle 
property  at  Nemi.  The  oil  the  Signora  had  of  me 
came  from  there.  Ah  I  you  should  see  Nemi,  you 
should  eat  the  strawberries  fresh  from  the  vines." 

That  settled  it ;  we  had  been  promising  our- 
selves a  little  Fourth  of  July  outing  somewhere 
in  the  country,  so  the  next  day  we  took  the  train 
for  Albano  and  drove  over  to  Nemi,  where  we 
are  decently  settled  at  the  Trattoria  Desanctis. 

Nemi  is  an  enchanting  little  mediasval  town 
perched  high  above  the  edge  of  the  Lake  of 
Nemi  called  by  the  ancients  the  Mirror  of  Diana. 

317 


ROMA  BEATA 

Sitting  in  the  terraced  garden  of  the  old  castle  of 
the  Orsini,  near  our  inn,  you  look  down  the  steep 
sides  of  the  crater  of  an  extinct  volcano,  over 
three  hundred  feet,  to  the  lake,  a  big  sparkling 
sapphire,  three  miles  in  circumference,  lying  at  the 
bottom  of  a  green  enamelled  cup.  There  is  no 
soil  in  the  world,  the  landlord  says,  quite  as  rich 
as  this  volcanic  soil.  Every  inch  of  the  land  is 
highly  cultivated,  and  here,  here  on  the  sloping 
sides  of  the  old  volcano  grow  the  wild  and  the  tame 
strawberries  of  Nemi.  I  trust  it  is  not  necessary 
to  tell  you  that  the  wild  ones  are  by  far  the  best. 
We  clambered  down  a  steep  path  jewelled  with 
wild  flowers  to  the  very  edge  of  Diana's  mirror. 
I  dipped  my  hand  in  the  clear  cold  water.  It  is 
hard  to  realize  that  where  this  gemlike  lake  now 
sparkles  in  the  sunlight  there  was  once  a  pit  of 
fire,  that  the  sides  where  the  pleasant  straw- 
berries grow  were  once  coated  with  a  velvet 
bloom  of  sulphur  like  the  crater  of  Vesuvius. 
We  turned  and  looked  up  the  slope ;  a  breeze 
ruffled  the  green  leaves  and  exposed  the  vines 
beneath,  laden  with  myriads  of  strawberries,  red 
as  rubies.  As  the  fruttajola  foretold,  I  now 
understand  how  the  little  town  of  Nemi  supplies 
the  big  city  of  Rome  with  strawberries. 

318 


arid,  tl 


•  iich  of  the  land 


*4teep  pat}i  jewelled 
aa's  mi 
<;oid  water.     It  i 
nlike  lake 


vnfh  a    v( 

>  the  slope;  a  br 
^    ')sed  tb 


lome  with 


STRAWBERRIES   OF   NEMI 

The  lake  is  more  than  one  hundred  feet  deep 
and  is  drained  by  an  artificial  emissarium  — 
ancient  Roman,  of  course.  The  peasants  say 
that  the  lake  has  no  bottom.  As  there  is  a  sort 
of  whirlpool  in  the  middle  from  the  suction  of 
the  water  into  the  emissarium,  it  is  considered 
unsafe  for  boating  or  bathing.  There  is  a  story 
of  a  mad  Englishman  who  tried  to  swim  across 
and  was  never  seen  again,  his  body  having  been 
sucked  down  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth  —  not 
a  bad  way  of  disposing  of  it.  A  few  years  ago 
they  found  the  remains  of  a  Roman  state  barge 
at  the  bottom  of  the  lake.  The  bronze  orna- 
ments and  even  part  of  the  wooden  walls  were 
intact.  The  barge  was  presumably  used  as  a 
float  in  some  imperial  pageant  of  old  Rome. 

At  sunset  the  women  and  girls  who  had  been 
busy  all  day  gathering  fruit  began  to  pass  by 
our  inn,  bearing  vast  loads  of  fragrant  straw- 
berries on  their  heads.  The  berries  are  picked 
into  flat  wide  baskets  with  handles,  tlii-ough 
which  a  long  stick  is  passed,  joining  together  the 
ten  or  twelve  baskets  that  constitute  a  load.  As 
each  sun-browned  wench  trudged  past,  our  eyes 
were  rejoiced  with  a  superb  flare  of  scarlet,  and 
oui*  noses  —  ah  I  notliing  in  this  world  has  ever 

319 


ROMA  BEATA 

tasted   so  good   as   the    strawberries    of    Nemi 
smell. 

Just  where  the  white  highroad,  following  the 
hne  of  the  old  crater,  curves  and  is  hidden  by  a 
group  of  dark  ilex  trees,  the  women  halted  be- 
side the  line  of  gay  painted  carts  waiting  to 
carry  the  strawberries  to  Rome.  We  discovered 
the  carretta  of  Leandro's  uncle,  a  fine  affair 
painted  blue  and  yellow,  with  long  shafts  and  a 
comfortable  seat  beneath  a  red  and  white  striped 
awning.  Oreste,  the  driver,  a  shrewd  peasant,  in 
spite  of  his  loutish,  grumpy  manner,  has  a  cer- 
tain family  resemblance  to  his  cousin  the  waiter, 
but  how  contact  with  the  world  has  sharpened 
Leandro's  wits,  polished  his  manners !  Oreste 
and  Leandro !  Don't  you  love  the  classic 
names  ?  They  linger  here  in  the  country  and 
help  to  bring  back  to  you  Theocritus  and  the 
golden  age  of  Magna  Grecia. 

"  At  what  hour  do  you  start  ? "  J.  asked 
Oreste. 

"  At  ten  o'clock." 

"  It  must  be  a  very  long  drive  ;  do  you  not  get , 
dreadfully  tired  ?  what  time  do  you  reach  Rome  ?" 

Oreste  answered  my  remarks  in  the  order  they 
were  put. 

320 


STRAWBERRIES   OF  NEMI 

"  The  distance  is  twenty  miles  ;  when  I  am 
tired  I  sleep ;  with  luck  I  shall  reach  the  gates  of 
Rome  by  four  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"  Who  minds  the  cart  while  you  sleep  ?  " 

"  Lupetto  here ; "  he  patted  the  dearest  httle 
dog  on  the  seat  beside  him.  Lupetto  looks  like 
a  young  fox,  he  has  the  brightest  eyes,  the 
smallest  pointed  ears,  and  a  soft  furry  tan  coat 
cUpped  like  a  lion's. 

"  As  long  as  Lupetto  is  quiet  and  I  hear  this 
music,"  he  touched  with  his  long  carter's  whip 
the  string  of  bells  round  the  horse's  neck,  "  I  doze 
in  peace.  When  the  bells  stop  jingling  or  Lu- 
petto barks  I  rouse  myself  to  find  out  what  is 
the  matter." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  robbed  ? " 

**  That  sometimes  happens  with  a  load  of  wine, 
but  with  fruit,  no.  Everybody  knows  that  I  never 
carry  money  and  that  I  have  a  good  knife  I "  he 
drew  the  knife  from  his  boot  and  ran  his  thumb 
along  the  blade,  testing  the  sharpness  of  the  edge. 

The  moon,  a  golden  sickle,  hung  low  in  the  sky, 
the  big  soft  stars  seemed  nearer  to  the  earth  than 
usual.  Lupetto  gave  an  impatient  little  bark, 
the  horse  stirred  uneasily,  jingling  his  bells.  The 
last  basket  of  strawberries  had  been  loaded  on 

«1  821 


ROMA   BEATA 

the  cart ;  it  was  clearly  time  to  be  off.  Oreste 
gathered  up  his  reins  and  whistled  to  his  horse. 

*'  Felice  notte  (A  happy  night)."  He  grunted 
the  pretty  greeting  to  us  over  his  shoulder 
awkwardly.  After  watching  Oreste  with  his 
two  best  friends,  his  horse  and  his  dog,  start  on 
the  long  night  journey  to  Rome,  we  went  back 
to  the  castle  garden,  where  our  landlord  treated 
us  to  anecdotes  touching  that  interesting  family, 
the  Orsini. 

Everything  comes  to  him  who  knows  how  to 
wait !  Ever  since  we  first  went  to  live  at  the  Pa- 
lazzo Rusticucci  I  have  longed  to  climb  to  the  top 
of  Monte  Cavo,  the  highest  of  the  Alban  hills. 
From  our  terrace  you  can  see  the  front  of  the  old 
Passionist  monastery  on  its  summit  glinting 
white  in  the  sun.  Yesterday  the  long  waiting 
came  to  an  end  and  I  have  seen  my  Carcas- 
sonne !  We  reached  the  summit  after  a  two 
hours'  walk  up  the  old  Via  Triumphalis  —  the 
steep  paved  way  along  which  the  Roman  generals 
once  passed  to  celebrate  the  military  triumphs 
at  the  temple  of  Jupiter  Latiaris,  which  stood 
at  the  top  of  Monte  Cavo.  It  is  a  wonderful 
road ;  in  some  places  the  old  basalt  pavement  is 
as  good  as  on  the  day  when  it  was  laid,  some  time 

322 


STRAWBERRIES   OF  NEMI 

"  before  the  year  one  "  I  Truly  a  glorious  walk, 
with  sudden  splendid  vistas  over  plain  and  moun^ 
tains,  and  cool  odorous  gi-oves  where  we  found 
the  wild  heartsease,  sensitive  ethereal  flowers, 
poor  relations  of  our  fat,  stall-fed  purple  and  gold 
terrace  pansies.  A  good  bath  of  nature,  such 
as  we  had  climbing  the  flanks  of  Monte  Cavo, 
makes  man  and  all  his  works  —  even  the  higher 
cultivation  of  flowers  —  seem  a  vain  thing.  We 
passed  the  vast  crater  of  another  extinct  volcano 
called  the  Camp  of  Hannibal,  who  according 
to  local  tradition  once  bivouacked  here.  In  a 
few  days  the  garrison  will  come  from  Rome  for 
its  annual  summer  camping  out,  and  Beppino, 
our  fascinating  young  friend  with  the  burning 
brown  eyes,  will  pitch  his  tent  possibly  on  the 
very  spot  where  Hannibal  slept. 

The  temple  of  Jupiter  is  gone ;  its  ruins  were 
destroyed  by  Cardinal  York,  one  of  the  last 
of  the  Stuarts,  in  1777,  when  he  built  the  mon- 
astery. Was  not  that  trying  of  him  ?  and  so  in- 
appropriate too,  for  whatever  their  faults  may 
have  been  the  Stuarts  have  always  been  protec- 
tors of  the  arts.  Half  of  the  monastery  is  now  a 
government  meteorological  station,  the  other  half 
an  inn,  which  concerned  us  more.     We  ordered 

323 


ROMA  BEATA 

supper  and  while  waiting  for  it  moused  about 
in  the  old  garden  till  we  found  the  little  that 
remains  of  the  temple,  a  few  fragments  of  tlie 
foundation  and  some  pieces  of  marble  roughly 
built  into  the  garden  wall.  "  Sic  transit  gloria 
mundir  the  temple  is  gone,  the  monastery  too ; 
meanwhile  remain  eggs  in  black  butter  for  hun- 
giy  travellers,  and  the  imperishable  beauty  of 
the  view.  The  wise  old  monks  always  chose 
the  most  magnificent  sites  for  their  monasteries. 
Good  air  and  a  fine  outlook  were  what  they  held  . 
to  be  essential ;  they  found  the  ideal  site,  and 
somehow  screwed  up  the  real  to  fit  it.  Do  you 
know  a  better  rule  for  building  one's  house  ?  I 
do  not. 

How  do  you  suppose  it  felt  after  having  been 
grilled  alive  on  the  stones  of  Rome  for  a  month, 
to  borrow  a  shawl  from  the  landlady,  in  order 
to  sit  out  after  sunset  and  enjoy  the  wonderful 
prospect?  Below,  at  the  foot  of  Monte  Cavo, 
lay  the  lakes  of  Albano  and  Nemi,  darkly  blue 
where  they  were  not  silver,  and  far,  far  off,  a  pale 
blue  bubble  on  the  horizon,  gleamed  the  dome 
of  St.  Peter's,  If  we  could  have  borrowed  a  spy- 
glass from  the  meteorological  bureau,  I  am  sure 
we  could  have  made  out  the  white  columns  of 

324 


STRAWBERRIES   OF  NEMI 

our  terrace  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  dome. 
When  it  grew  too  cold  to  sit  out,  the  landlady 
showed  us  to  a  pair  of  tiny  stone  cells.  In 
the  watches  of  the  night  I  knocked  on  the  thick 
wall  that  separated  us,  "for  company,"  as  some 
lonely  Passionist  monk  may  have  rapped  a  greet- 
ing to  a  brother  in  the  dark  winter  nights  of  long 
ago.  In  spite  of  the  odor  of  sanctity  (  stronger 
here  than  I  have  ever  known  it),  hardness  of  bed, 
flabbiness  of  pillow,  in  spite  of  the  keen  chill  be- 
fore dawn,  that  one  cool  night  in  the  old  Pas- 
sionist monastery  will  remain  a  delicious  memory 
when  the  hot  pavements  of  a  Roman  July  are 
forgotten  I 

Early  the  next  morning  we  made  the  descent 
by  a  short  cut,  a  steep  path  that  brought  us  out 
on  the  highway  not  far  from  Nemi. 

Near  the  town  we  overtook  Oreste  on  his  way 
back  from  Rome.  He  had  drawn  up  his  cart  in  an 
olive  gi'ove  and  was  examining  the  fruit  on  the 
trees.  Lupetto,  whose  turn  it  was  to  sleep,  lay 
snugly  curled  up  on  the  seat.  We  sat  down  to  rest 
in  the  pleasant  shade  of  the  gray  green  leaves. 
There  are  twelve  aged  olive  trees  in  the  grove, 
and  another  larger  and  more  picturesque  than 
the  rest  originally  belonging  to  the  same  group, 

325 


ROMA  BEATA 

standing  alone,  on  the  other  side  of  the  white 
high  road.  The  trunk  of  this  old  tree  is  almost 
hollow,  a  mere  shell  of  shaggy  bark.  The  knotted 
roots  reach  out  an  amazing  distance  from  the 
stem  before  they  grip  the  earth.  The  twisted 
trunk  and  limbs  look  like  a  tortured  human  be- 
ing with  uplifted  arms,  and  suggest  the  men 
turned  to  trees  of  the  Inferno. 

"  This  is  the  finest  olive  tree  I  have  seen  in 
Italy,"  J.  said.     Oreste  gloomily  assented. 

"  It  is  a  noble  tree  worth  any  three  of  the  oth- 
ers. See  how  many  olives  it  has.  Leandro  will 
come  soon  to  gather  them." 

"  Your  cousin,  Leandro  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  this  is  his  tree.  My  grandfather  of 
blessed  memory  who  owned  these  thirteen  trees 
had  thirteen  children.  When  he  died  he  left  one 
olive  tree  to  each  child.  The  mother  of  Leandro 
was  his  favorite  daughter,  there  is  no  denying  that, 
and  to  her  he  left  this  tree,  though  by  good  rights 
it  should  have  come  to  the  eldest  son,  my  father. 
They  quarrelled  at  the  time,  but  my  uncle  the 
priest  patched  things  up  between  them,  he  said 
it  was  a  disgrace  for  kindred  to  quarrel  over  an 
inheritance.  All  very  well  for  him  to  preach,  — 
priests  are  obliged  to,  that  is  how  they  earn  their 

326 


STRAWBERRIES   OF   NEMI 

living.  I  was  a  mere  child,  or  the  matter  would 
not  have  been  so  easily  settled,  I  can  tell  you.  It 
is  too  late  now ;  this  famous  tree  is  Leandro's, 
1  must  content  myself  with  that  blighted  one 
yonder,  plainly  the  poorest  of  the  lot." 

"  Your  tree  has  not  been  so  well  cared  for  as 
the  others,"  J.  said.  "Look  how  wisely  these 
branches  have  been  pruned.  The  sun  reaches 
every  part."  The  branches  in  the  middle  of  the 
big  olive  had  been  neatly  cut  away  leaving  an 
open  space  the  shape  of  a  cup  in  the  centre. 

"  There  may  be  something  in  what  you  say," 
grumbled  Oreste,  "  indeed  1  have  httle  time  to 
care  for  my  property.  I  must  always  be  on  the 
road,  now  with  wine,  now  with  oHves,  now  with 
strawberries.  Besides,  I  have  not  Leandro's  op- 
portunities ;  he  sells  to  the  strangers  ! " 

"  We  will  try  your  oil ;  bring  the  first  you 
make  to  the  Palazzo  Rusticucci."  On  this  we 
parted.  We  shall  see  Oreste  in  Rome  before 
long  and  ascertain  if  the  oil  from  his  tree  is  as 
good  as  that  of  the  famous  old  patriarch  tree  which 
we  have  had  in  other  years  from  Leandro.  To 
know  the  vines  that  bear  your  grapes  and  the  trees 
that  give  your  olives  and  oil  is  the  next  best  thing 
to  owning  them,  don't  you  think  ? 

327 


ROMA  BEATA 

The  most  interesting  person  we  have  met  in 
Nemi  is  an  old  soldier  of  Garibaldi's.  We  were 
watching  the  sunset  from  the  terrace  of  the  inn 
one  evening,  when  we  fell  into  talk  with  him.  He 
is  a  grave,  thoughtful  man  ;  stern  of  expression, 
slow  of  speech,  not  quite  like  any  other  Italian  I 
have  ever  known.  He  walks  with  a  cane,  and 
stoops  badly  ;  I  am  sure  if  he  could  stand  up- 
right he  would  measure  six  feet  two  inches  in 
height.  His  face  is  a  network  of  wrinkles,  he 
has  an  ugly  red  scar  across  one  cheek. 

The  conversation  beginning  with  the  weather 
soon  changed  to  pohtics.  At  first  he  spoke  in 
English,  of  which  he  has  a  small  stock  of  words. 
Something  was  said  about  the  Pope  and  the 
temporal  power.  He  bristled  all  over,  growing 
red  as  a  turkey  cock  as  he  said, — 

"  The  Popay  as  a  Popay,  very  welley  ;  the 
Popay  as  a  Kingay,  not  at  alley  ! " 

After  this  he  relapsed  into  Italian  and  would 
not  be  induced  to  speak  more  English.  Cruel, 
was  it  not?  He  is  gloomy  enough  about  the 
present  political  situation  ;  pessimistic  about  the 
future. 

He  spoke  with  slow  cold  anger  of  a  recent  act 
of  the  Itahan  parliament,  which  he  cannot  forgive. 

3£8 


STRAWBERRIES   OF  NEMI 

*'  They  to  pass  a  vote  of  censure  on  Francesco 
Crispi  I  The  whole  lot  of  them  are  not  worth 
one  finger  of  his  hand  I "  he  said. 

"  Everybody  knows  that  it  was  the  result  of  a 
political  cabal  against  Crispi." 

"  No,  not  everybody ;  some  are  wholly  ignorant 
and  others  forget !  We  who  were  with  him  in 
Sicily,  where  he  was  as  the  right  hand  of  Gari- 
baldi, know  the  man  for  what  he  is.  He  has 
been  insulted,  and  his  friends  will  be  slow  to  for- 
get the  insult." 

"  You  also  were  in  Sicily  with  Garibaldi  ?  " 

"  I  am  one  of  the  Thousand." 

It  was  as  if  he  had  said  "  I  am  one  of  the 
Three  Hundred  of  Thermopylae,"  or  the  "  Six 
Hundred  of  Balaclava  I  "  It  was  electrifying  to 
find  oneself  in  the  company  of  one  of  those  *'  few 
and  good  men  "  who  sailed  with  Garibaldi  from 
Quarto,  on  the  5th  of  May,  1860,  landed  six  days 
later  at  Marsala  under  the  protection  of  the  Brit- 
ish gunboats  Intrepid  and  Argus,  made  the  glo- 
rious march  to  Palermo,  and  freed  Sicily  and 
Naples  from  the  hateful  yoke  of  the  Bourbons. 

"  I  have  heard  that  you  of  the  Thousand 
loved  your  chief  as  if  he  had  been  your  father ; 
is  this  true?" 

SS9 


ROMA  BEATA 

"  Our  acts,  not  merely  our  words,  proved  it  to 
be  true.  We  would  have  died  for  him  to  the 
last  man.  Even  the  women  and  priests  wanted 
to  take  up  arms  and  follow  Garibaldi.  You 
know  the  story  of  the  nuns  ?  A  whole  convent 
of  nuns,  from  the  old  mother  abbess  to  the 
youngest  novice,  gave  him  the  kiss  of  peace, 
they  would  not  be  denied ! "  He  grew  visibly 
younger  as  he  talked,  there  was  fire  in  the  man ; 
it  took  but  the  breath  of  our  sympathy  to  blow 
the  embers  to  a  flame. 

"  Was  that  scar  on  your  cheek  made  by  an 
Austrian  or  a  French  bayonet  ? "  He  rubbed 
the  old  wound  with  a  stiff  hand  smiling  grimly  to 
himself.  "  By  neither  —  worse  yet  I  At  Cala- 
tafini,  when  the  royal  troops  —  they  were  Nea- 
politans—  had  exhausted  their  cartridges,  they 
threw  stones  at  us.  Have  you  not  heard  what 
Garibaldi  said  of  that  action  ?  '  The  old  mis- 
fortune, a  fight  between  Italians,  but  it  proves 
to  me  what  can  be  done  with  this  family  united.' 
One  day  while  the  chief  was  watering  his  horse 
at  a  spring  a  Franciscan  friar  suddenly  appeared 
among  us.  Some  of  the  men  tried  to  arrest  him, 
but  he  forced  his  way  to  the  chiefs  side,  threw 
himself  on  his  knees,  and  begged  to  be  taken 

330 


STRAWBERRIES   OF  NEMI 

along  with  us.  There  were  some  who  believed 
him  an  enemy  in  disguise,  but  the  man,  his 
name  was  Fra  Pantaleo,  did  good  service  and 
proved  true  as  steel  1" 

As  long  as  the  talk  is  of  the  old  time  our  ancient 
soldier  is  a  hero  ;  when  it  touches  to-day  he  de- 
generates into  a  grumbler.  He  seems  less  dissat- 
isfied with  the  army  than  with  most  things  modern. 
"  My  grandson  is  serving  his  four  years.  Where 
do  you  suppose  his  regiment  is  quartered  ?  In 
Milan ;  that  is  as  it  should  be,  the  North  and  the 
South  must  know  each  other.  It  is  well  to  send 
the  men  of  Sicily  to  Piedmont  and  the  Piedmon- 
tese  to  Sicily.  In  this  manner  they  may  learn  that 
they  are  before  all  things  Italians." 

The  veterans  who  fought  for  the  Unification  of 
Italy  are  treated  very  much  as  we  treat  the  veter- 
ans who  fought  for  the  preservation  of  our  Union  ; 
they  are  scolded,  laughed  at,  loved,  and  forgiven 
many  things  that  would  be  unpardonable  in  others. 
On  national  holidays  the  old  Garibaldians  turn 
out  in  their  red  shirts,  white  kerchiefs,  and 
peaked  caps.  They  are  fewer  now,  their  blouses 
have  faded  to  a  softer  red  than  when  I  first 
saw  them  in  the  year  1878,  mustered  to  meet 
Garibaldi,  already  mortally  ill,  when  he  came  up 

331 


ROMA   BEATA 

from  rocky  Caprera  to  Rome  for  the  funeral  of 
Victor  Emanuel,  the  man  he  had  made  King  of 
Italy.  I  remember  it  as  if  it  had  all  happened 
yesterday.  We  were  in  the  square  outside  the 
railroad  station  when  he  arrived.  The  Piazza  di 
Termini  was  packed  with  silent  people  waiting 
patiently  hour  after  hour.  At  last  we  heard  the 
whistle  of  an  engine  ;  the  crowd  was  shaken  by  a 
murmur,  "  Garibaldi  has  come  !  " 

A  landeau  was  driven  across  the  piazza  at  a 
footpace,  Garibaldi  lay  across  the  carriage,  his 
head  raised  on  a  pillow.  He  wore  the  classic 
gray  felt  hat  and  the  red  blouse.  At  first 
his  eyes  were  closed  as  if  he  were  in  pain.  His 
face  reminded  one  that  God  made  man  in  His 
own  image.  The  features  were  fine  and  firm, 
the  hair  and  beard  were  a  rich  silver,  the  com- 
plexion white  and  rose,  like  a  child's.  He  was 
always  described  as  "  bronzed  " ;  the  delicacy  came 
from  his  long  illness.  Once  he  opened  his  eyes, 
those  who  stood  near  caught  an  eagle's  glance. 
A  tall  woman  lifted  her  child  high  over  her  head, 
whispering  to  it,  "  Never,  never,  never  forget  that 
thou  hast  seen  the  face  of  Garibaldi."  There 
was  no  applause  ;  many  women,  some  men  were 
weeping.     As  the  carriage  passed,  the  guard  of 

332 


STRAWBERRIES   OF   NEMI 

honor,  his  old  companions  in  arms,  closed  around 
it.  F.,  who  was  near  us  in  the  crowd,  was  singing 
under  his  breath  the  words  of  the  old  Carbonari 
song, 

"  Zitto  /  silenziOf  chi  passa  la  ronda  ?  evviva  la 
republican  evviva  Uberta  (Hush,  silence  I  Who 
passes  the  patrol  ?  Long  live  the  repubUc,  and 
long  live  Uberty) ! " 

I  wonder  if  F.  remembers  I  He  is  a  Pope's 
man  now  and  denies  the  virtue  of  republics. 

I  described  this  scene  to  our  old  soldier ;  his 
bloodshot  eyes  grew  redder  yet  as  he  said  gruf- 

fly.- 

"  I  too  was  there  I " 

To-morrow  we  go  back  to  Rome.  We  have 
ordered  a  basket  of  strawberries  to  take  with 
us.  I  have  written  to  the  gobbo  to  meet  us 
at  the  station  ;  as  we  pass  the  fruttajold's  shop  I 
shall  stop  and  tell  her  that  I  now  understand  all 
about  the  strawberries  of  Nemi. 

Palazzo  Rtranncucci,  RoBfE,  July  14,  1900. 

This  summer  I  am  again  trying  the  Roman 
method  of  supineness  ;  I  eat  very  little,  sleep  a 
great  deal,  and  keep  mostly  indoors.  Last  year 
I  exhausted  myself  with  bicycling  and  other  vio- 

333 


ROMA   BEATA 

lent  exercise.  The  English  and  German  residents 
recommend  this  energetic  com*se,  but  I  find  that 
the  Romans  are  right.  The  terrace  is  too  lovely, 
ablaze  with  marigolds,  cannas,  cockscombs,  bal- 
sams, oleanders,  and  portulacas.  Our  only  fail- 
ure has  been  the  dahlias,  which  all  died.  The 
vines  are  all  doing  famously  ;  the  red  honeysuckle 
which  J.  dug  up  (in  the  very  face  of  the  white 
bull)  at  the  Villa  Madama,  has  gro^n  to  an 
astonishing  size.  Our  large  passion-flower  vine 
covered  half  the  terrace  pergola ;  it  had  out- 
grown the  largest  flower-pot  that  is  made,  so  to 
save  its  life  J.  gave  it  to  Signor  Boni  for  the 
Roman  forum.  Four  men  carried  it  downstairs. 
It  was  tragic  to  see  the  beautiful  branches  broken 
and  trailing  as  they  put  it  in  a  cart  and  drove  it 
away. 

This  is  the  beginning  of  the  end  !  Beppino  was 
right,  the  Palazzo  Rusticucci  is  sold  to  a  brother- 
hood of  French  monks,  and  we  must  deliver  up 
the  apartment  and  the  terrace  to  them  on  the  first 
day  of  September.  Many  of  our  beloved  plants 
will  be  bought  by  friends,  others  we  shall  give 
away.  The  honeysuckles  and  some  of  the  roses 
follow  the  passion-flower  to  the  forum  ;  others 
go  to  the  garden  of  the  American    School  of 

334 


STRAWBERRIES   OF  NEMI 

Archaeology,  where  the  dear  Nortons  will  care 
for  them,  and  some  to  the  Spanish  Academy, 
where  the  Signora  Villegas  will  have  an  eye  to 
them. 

Camphoring  goes  on  to-day ;  the  general 
wretchedness  of  "  things  in  the  saddle  "  is  in  the 
air.  How  stupidly  we  complicate  life  by  ac- 
quiring fleeces  of  Miletus  and  other  perishable 
objects.  How  to  dispose  of  the  accumulations 
of  all  these  years  ?  Diogenes  had  the  right  of  it. 
In  future  a  tub  and  the  sunlight  will  suffice  me. 

This  afternoon  as  we  were  sitting  comfortably 
together  in  the  big  old  studio  (the  coolest  place 
in  Rome)  enjoying  our  tea,  Signor  Boni  threw  a 
bombshell  into  our  camp. 

"  I  notice,"  he  said,  "  that  those  cracks  in  the 
wall  have  widened  perceptibly  since  I  was  last 
here." 

The  studio  is  forty  feet  high,  sixty  feet  long. 
Among  the  jocose  charcoal  sketches  scrawled  on 
the  walls  certain  evil-looking  cracks  zigzag  from 
the  high-pitched  wooden  roof  to  the  red  brick 
pavement.  When  we  first  came  they  were  no 
more  than  mere  cracks  in  the  whitewash  ;  now 
they  gape  wide  enough  to  hold  my  finger.  As 
we  were  examining  the  cracks  we  all  started  at  a 

335 


ROMA   BEATA 

sound  like  the  snapping  of  a  pistol  over  our 
heads. 

"  What  was  that  noise  ?  "  I  cried. 

"  Only  the  creaking  of  the  ceiling  beams,  it 
happens  every  now  and  again,"  said  J. 

"  Before  we  restored  the  Ducal  Palace  in 
Venice,  and  saved  it  from  tumbling  down,  the 
same  thing  went  on,"  said  Signor  Boni ;  "  but, 
amid  miei,  do  you  not  see  what  all  this  means  ? " 

"  It  means  that  this  old  barrack  is  going  to 
pieces,"  said  J.  ;  "  some  day  they  will  either  have 
to  shore  it  up  or  tear  it  down." 

"  Listen,"  said  the  Venetian,  impressively. 
"  Last  Sunday  morning  the  Palazzo  Piombino,  in 
the  Via  della  Scrofa,  not  half  a  mile  from  here,  fell 
in  a  heap  of  ruins,  all  in  a  second,  with  no  more 
warning  than  you  have  had.  If  it  had  not  been 
festa,  and  a  fine  day,  there  would  have  been  a 
great  loss  of  life.  As  it  was  the  people  were  all 
out  gadding  about  the  town." 

Pietro,  who  had  been  listening,  now  chimed  in. 
"  Scuse  Signore,  there  was  the  cook,  a  friend  of 
mine,  who  was  obliged  to  remain  at  home  in  order 
to  freeze  the  ice  cream,  —  thirsty  work  on  a  hot 
day.  Magari,  that  cook's  thirst  saved  his  life. 
He  had  just  climbed  through  the  grating  into 

336 


STRAWBERRIES   OF  NEMI 

the  wine  cellar  to  get  a.  fiaschetta  of  the  wine  of 
Orvieto,  when  pifF,  paff,  pifFerty  I  down  came  the 
house  crashing  about  his  ears.  The  wine  cellar 
had  a  vaulted  stone  roof  so  strong  that  it  re- 
sisted all  the  bricks,  mortar,  and  rubbish  that  fell 
upon  it.  They  heard  that  cook  shrieking  like  a 
small  devil,  and  dug  him  out ;  the  flask  of  Or- 
vieto was  still  in  his  hand,  though  he  had  not 
drunk  a  drop  ;  he  believed  that  the  catastrophe 
was  a  judgment  upon  him  for  taking  the  wine." 

"  The  Palazzo  Rusticucci  to  be  sold  over  our 
heads,  the  studio  threatening  to  fall  down  upon 
them  —  our  Rom^n  world  is  crumbUng  about 
us  !  "   I  cried. 

To  which  Pietro  s  "  What  are  you  going  to 
do  about  it  ?  "  was  cold  comfort. 


28  S37 


XV 

THE  KING  IS  DEAD.      LONG  LIVE  THE  KING! 

Palazzo  Rusticucci,  Rosie,  July  29,  1900. 

I  WAS  awakened  at  six  o'clock  this  morning  by  a 
loud  knocking  and  the  shrill  voices  of  my  maids 
calling  to  me.  Hurrjdng  out  to  the  hall  I  found 
the  three  pale,  shivering  women  huddled  together 
near  our  door. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"     I  asked. 

Old  Nena  could  only  lift  her  withered  hands  to 
heaven  and  cry  aloud  to  the  Madonna.  Filo- 
mena  stood  staring  dully,  saying  over  and  over 
again, 

"  Murdered,  murdered,  murdered  ! " 

Pompilia  the  Tuscan  seemed  less  distraught 
than  the  others. 

"  Tell  me  quickly  what  has  happened  ? "  I  said 
to  her. 

"  They  have  killed  our  King ! "  wailed  Pompilia. 

"It  is  true,"  Filomena  sobbed ;  " I  heard  it 
when  I  went  to  mass." 

338 


LAST  DAYS   IN  ROME 

We  dressed  immediately  and  went  out  into  the 
street,  to  find  that  it  was  only  too  true.  Giu- 
seppe the  baker  standing  at  his  shop  door,  white 
as  his  linen  clothes,  read  aloud  the  dreadful  news 
from  his  morning  paper.  In  the  dark  shop  be- 
hind, his  boy  fed  the  craelding  fire  with  brush- 
wood as  if  nothing  out  of  the  common  had 
happened.  The  loaves  were  ready  for  the  oven  ; 
it  was  his  business  to  keep  up  the  fire. 

"Last  night,  at  half-past  ten  o'clock,  as  the 
King  was  getting  into  his  carriage  at  Monza,  he 
was  shot  and  almost  instantly  killed.  As  he  fell, 
those  nearest  caught  him  in  their  arms  imploring 
him  to  say  if  he  were  seriously  hurt.  His  Majesty 
answered,  '  Non  eniente  ( It  is  nothing).'  These 
were  his  last  words,  he  died  almost  immediately 
after." 

Ignazio  our  gardener  who  had  just  come  up,  a 
damp  newspaper  crumpled  in  his  hand,  echoed 
the  words : 

"  It  is  nothing  !  It  is  nothing  I  Was  not  that 
like  him  ?     Ah  I  he  was  a  brave  man." 

"  The  assassin  was  with  difficulty  saved  from 
the  mob ; "  Giuseppe  continued  to  read. 

"Why  did  they  save  him?"  interrupted  Ig- 
nazio.    "  They  should  have  let  the  people  tear  the 

339 


ROMA  BEATA 

wretch  to  pieces,  and  that  would  have  been  too 
good  for  him  ! " 

**  It  is  nothing  I "  Giuseppe  repeated.  "  Ah  ! 
you  may  well  say  he  was  a  brave  man.  Do  you 
remember  the  last  time  they  tried  to  murder  our 
good  King  ?  He  was  on  his  way  to  the  races. 
The  officer  in  the  carriage  with  him  was 
wounded ;  Re  Umberto  sent  the  injured  man 
back  to  Rome  while  he  himself  drove  on  to  Tor 
di  Quinto  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  In  the 
royal  box  he  said  to  one  of  his  suite  that  being 
shot  at  was  one  of  'gl'incerti  del  mestiere  (the 
risks  of  the  profession).'  Ah  !  he  was  a  brave 
man ;  he  deserved  a  better  trade." 

"  Well  they  have  killed  him  at  last,"  said  Ig- 
nazio.  "  What  do  you  suppose  will  be  done  to 
the  murderer  ?  Will  they  hang  him  ?  No,  in- 
deed ;  nothing  so  sensible  !  We  tax-payers  must 
support  that  vile  assassin  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 
1  ask  you,  is  there  any  sense  in  that  ?  They 
should  let  the  people  have  him  ;  we  will  give  him 
justice.     Ah  !  if  I  had  only  been  there  ! " 

Ignazio,  perhaps  the  gentlest  man  I  have  ever 
known,  was  quite  transported  with  rage.  Curs- 
ing and  crying  he  dashed  the  tears  from  his  eyes 
with  his  clenched  fist. 

340 


LAST   DAYS   IN  ROME 

Old  Nena  took  Ignazio  by  the  sleeve :  "  Come 
away,  man,"  she  said  gruffly ;  "  will  it  help  matters 
for  you  to  have  a  fit  of  apoplexy  ? " 

Filomena,  the  soft  hearted,  took  his  other  arm ; 
between  them  they  led  him  into  the  house. 
Pompilia,  made  of  sterner  stuff,  remained  to  listen 
to  the  baker. 

"  We  have  no  capital  punishment  in  Italy," 
Giuseppe  explained  to  me.  *'  The  King's  assassin 
will  be  sentenced  to  solitary  confinement  for  life." 

"  Was  the  man  an  anarchist  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  An  anarchist,  yes  ;  and  an  Italian  —  more 
shame  to  him.  But,  Signora  mia,  he  comes  from 
your  country  ;  read  for  yourself."  The  regicide 
has  lived  in  Paterson,  New  Jersey.  It  is  said 
that  two  Italian  anarchist  newspapers  pubUshed 
in  that  town  have  advocated  the  murder  of  sov- 
ereigns in  general,  of  King  Umberto  in  particular. 
The  paper  Giuseppe  handed  me  attacks  our  Gov- 
ernment sharply  for  allowing  the  pubUcation  of 
these  incendiary  sheets. 

Rome  is  very  quiet ;  the  grief  seems  to  be  gen- 
uine and  universal.  The  Prince  and  Princess  of 
Naples  are  cruising  in  the  Mediterranean.  It  is 
believed  that  a  message  from  a  semaphore  was 
understood  upon  the  royal  yacht,  and  hoped  that 

341 


ROMA  BEATA 

the  young  King  will  soon  land  and  make  his  proc- 
lamation. The  evening  papers  speak  of  him 
already  as  King  Victor  Emanuel  III.  and  of 
our  dear  Queen  Margaret  as  the  Queen  Mother ! 
As  soon  as  Pope  Leo  heard  of  the  murder  he 
celebrated  mass  for  the  repose  of  the  King's  soul. 
The  twenty-two  years  of  King  Umberto's  reign 
seem  to  me  like  a  dream.  I  am  haunted  by  a 
song  of  my  mother's  ;  I  hear  the  tragic  pathos  of 
her  voice  singing  the  words  which  when  I  was  a 
little  child  and  could  not  understand  their  mean- 
ing always  sent  me  shamefaced  into  the  corner 
to  hide  my  tears  : 

''  Kingdoms  have  passed  away  since  last  we  met : 

See  from  their  thrones  of  pride  monarchs  like  spectres  glide, 

Love's  law  doth  still  abide.  Love  reigneth  yet !  " 

I  was  in  Rome  when  this  dead  King's  father, 
Victor  Emanuel,  died ;  I  strewed  roses  before  his 
sumptuous  funeral  car  with  its  eight  black  horses  ; 
I  saw  King  Umberto  receive  the  oath  of  allegiance 
from  his  troops,  take  the  vow  to  support  the  con- 
stitution. Again  I  am  in  Rome ;  if  I  live  so 
long  I  shall  see  his  funeral  pageant,  and  yet  I 
feel  as  young  as  ever  I  did  in  my  Ufe,  and  my 
feelings  are  hurt  when  people  treat  me  as  if  I 

342 


LAST  DAYS   IN   ROME 

were  not  so.     Read  me  this  riddle  if  you  can : 
mystery  of  mysteries ! 

This  morning  Patsy,  sent  back  to  Rome  as  a 
special  correspondent  of  the  "  Daily "  sur- 
prised us  at  breakfast.  You  may  imagine  if  we 
were  glad  to  see  him.  People  here  are  so  tense, 
so  overstrained  and  excited,  that  his  presence 
is  like  a  fresh  north  wind  after  days  of  sirocco. 
He  brought  us  the  latest  bulletins  from  the 
Press  Club. 

"  Yesterday,"  he  said,  "  the  young  King  and 
Queen  landed  from  their  yacht  somewhere  on 
the  coast  of  Calabria  and  went  directly  to  Monza 
by  way  of  Naples,  where  Crispi,  old,  broken,  and 
nearly  blind,  met  them  at  the  station.  The  son 
of  the  murdered  King  hurrying  to  his  father's 
body  stops  to  embrace  the  old  Minister.  Can't 
you  imagine  it  ?  Though  Crispi  is  out  of  office 
and  out  of  public  favor,  the  young  man  re- 
members the  time  when  he  was  a  child  and 
Crispi  was  his  father's  right  hand.  That  was 
a  meeting  worth  seeing.  I  wish  I  had  been 
there." 

History  will  judge  both  King  and  Mihister 
more  fairly  than  contemporaries  have  done  ;  it 
will  find  the  King  worthy  of  the  great  name  he 

343 


UOMA  BEATA 

bore.     I  gather  from  Patsy's  talk  that  the  re- 
action is  beginning  ah-eady. 

"  The  Itahans  are  finding  out,"  he  said,  "  that 
the  King  inherited  more  than  his  name  from 
Humbert  of  the  White  Hand  ;  he  had  the  same 
colossal  loyalty,  courage,  and  honesty.  It  sounds 
brutal  to  say  it,  but  I  believe  his  tragic  death  has 
done  more  to  secure  the  throne  to  the  dynasty 
than  any  act  of  his  life  could  have  done.  Sym- 
pathy is  already  vriping  out  the  memory  of  his 
mistakes.  There  could  not  be  a  more  propitious 
opening  for  the  new  reign." 

August  8. 

Rome  is  crowded.  It  is  strange  to  see  the 
hotels  open,  the  Corso  alive  with  people,  the 
Pincio  and  Villa  Borghese  filled  with  carriages 
at  this  usually  dead  season.  The  Court,  the 
people  of  the  embassies,  special  envoys  from  all 
the  countries  of  Europe,  and  I  should  think 
nearly  every  distinguished  personage  in  Italy,  are 
here  for  the  King's  funeral  to-morrow.  All  these 
people  augment  rather  than  lessen  the  universal 
gloom ;  after  six  months  of  jubilation  Home  is  a 
mourning  city.  This  afternoon  we  drove  to  the 
Quirinal  Palace   to  inscribe  our  names   in  the 

34,4 


LAST  DAYS   IN  ROME 

Queen's  book.  A  dozen  large  folios  lie  on  as 
many  tables  in  the  entrance  hall ;  here  all  who 
wish  to  express  their  sympathy  may  write  their 
names.  I  recognized  among  those  waiting  to 
sign,  the  French  Ambassador,  Beppino  (Prince 
Nero's  grandson),  and  om-  Ignazio.  One  table 
was  surrounded  by  poorly  dressed  lads,  —  they 
looked  like  newsboys,  messengers,  and  the  like. 
They  are  the  best  witnesses  of  the  progress  made 
in  the  last  twenty  years ;  when  King  Umberto 
came  to  the  throne,  the  street  boys  of  Rome  did 
not  write  their  names.  To-night  the  walls  are 
covered  with  manifestoes  from  the  various  trades, 
guilds,  and  associations,  expressing  hon-or  at  the 
crime,  sympathy  for  the  royal  family,  grief  for 
the  murdered  King,  loyalty  to  his  house. 

August  9. 

The  King's  funeral  was  to-day.  The  weather 
was  fair  and  very  cool  for  the  season.  We  left 
home  at  half-past  five  in  the  morning  and  drove 
to  the  Corso,  where  we  were  obliged  to  leave  our 
carriage.  We  had  a  pass  which  took  us  through 
the  lines  of  cavalry  stretched  across  the  Piazza 
Venezia.  We  reached  the  balcony  we  had 
secured   (thanks  to   kind   Mr.   Iddings,  of  our 

345 


ROMA  BEATA 

embassy)  in  the  Via  Nazionale,  half  an  hour  be- 
fore the  funeral  procession  started.  We  kept  a 
place  for  Patsy,  who  soon  joined  us,  looking,  for 
him,  rather  jaded.  He  had  been  up  all  night, 
having  come  down  from  Monza  on  the  special 
train  which  brought  the  King's  body. 

"  It  was  a  wonderful  journey,"  Patsy  said.  "  The 
bells  were  tolled  in  every  town  we  passed  through ; 
all  the  stations  were  hung  with  crape ;  every- 
where, even  at  the  poorest  villages,  we  were  met 
by  citizens  bringing  flowers.  When  we  arrived, 
the  train  was  half  buried  in  laurel  and  roses." 

"  Were  you  late  in  reaching  Rome  ?  " 

"  That  was  the  best  of  it :  there  was  no  confu- 
sion, no  delay,  we  were  exactly  on  time.  It  was 
half-past  six  when  the  Duke  of  Aosta  stepped 
from  the  train,  —  he  was  in  command  of  the 
guard  which  escorted  the  body  from  Monza  — 
and  saluted  King  Victor,  who  was  waiting  on  the 
platform.  The  cousins  —  they  are  about  of  an 
age,  I  fancy  —  looked  hard  at  each  other,  shook 
hands,  then  embraced." 

Patsy  had  evidently  been  a  good  deal  moved 
by  the  scene,  which  is  not  surprising.  You 
know  Aosta  is  the  heir  presumptive  and  has  a 
son,  while  the  young  King  is  still  childless. 

346 


LAST  DAYS   IN  ROME 

"  How  did  King  Victor  look  ? " 

"  Soldierly  ;  as  the  coffin  touched  the  soil  of 
Rome,  his  lip  trembled  ;  it  seemed  for  a  moment 
as  if  he  would  give  way  ;  but  he  controlled  him- 
self,— that  was  the  only  sign  of  weakness." 

The  procession  opened  with  a  troop  of  lancers, 
dashing  fellows,  well  mounted  and  well  set  up. 
Then  followed  artillery,  infantry,  engineers,  sail- 
ors, marines,  and  in  the  place  of  honor  nearest 
to  the  cortege,  the  trim,  smart  bersagUeri,  a  crack 
regiment  of  riflemen.  Their  dress  is  very  pictur- 
esque :  dark  blue  uniforms,  crimson  facings,  and 
large  round  hats  with  cocks'  feathers  worn  on 
one  side.  The  crowd  in  the  streets  was  extraor- 
dinarily quiet ;  the  only  sounds  were  the  tramp, 
tramp  of  the  soldiers'  feet,  the  muffled  drums  of 
the  dead  march.  Many  of  the  people  had  waited 
all  night  to  secure  their  places.  The  civic  officers 
of  Rome  marched  in  fine  mediaeval  costumes, 
the  dresses  of  the  gonfalonieri,  red  and  yellow 
cloth,  were  among  the  best. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  such  a  well-drilled  proces- 
sion, or  such  a  well-behaved  crowd  ?  "  said  Patsy. 

1  confessed  that  I  had  never  seen  better.  Just 
as  we  were  commenting  on  the  fine  gravity  and 
self-control  of  those  who  marched,  and  of  those 

S47 


ROMA  BEATA 

who  waited  and  watched,  the  silence  —  which  till 
then  really  had  been  remarkable  —  was  broken 
by  a  sound  like  the  buzzing  of  thousands  of 
insects. 

"  Who  can  these  be  ?  "  I  asked. 

"The  lawyers  are  coming,"  said  Patsy. 

The  members  of  the  court  of  cassation,  and 
other  legal  lights,  dressed  in  crimson  and  black 
velvet  robes,  with  large  square  velvet  hats  to 
match,  and  thick  gold  chains  about  their  necks, 
went  chattering  by  ;  they  could  not  be  silent ! 
Siena  sent  a  dozen  pretty  pages  in  fifteenth- 
century  dress  :  puffed  satin  doublets  and  jerkins, 
long  silk  hose,  and  golden  lovelocks  on  their 
shoulders.  The  gondoliers  of  Venice  (famous 
loyalists)  were  a  fine  group ;  two  of  the  tallest 
carried  between  them  an  enormous  wreath  of 
laurel,  the  gift  of  their  guild. 

There  was  a  sudden  stir  in  the  crowd  ;  then  a 
deep  sigh,  as  a  gun  carriage  drawn  by  two  lean 
artillery  horses  came  in  sight,  driven  by  a  grizzled 
gunner,  the  cofiin  strapped  behind  in  the  place 
of  the  gun.  An  officer  carrying  King  Umberto's 
sword  walked  before,  another  followed,  bearing 
on  a  cushion  the  iron  crown  of  Savoy  ;  an  orderly 
led  his  favorite  horse,  the  saddle  draped  in  crape, 

348 


LAST  DAYS   IN  ROME 

the  empty  boots  turned  backwards  in  the  stir- 
rups. King  Victor  followed  close  behind  the  coffin 
on  foot,  with  the  Princes  of  Savoy,  the  Russian 
Grand  Duke  Alexis,  the  Duke  of  Argyle,  and 
other  special  envoys  and  guests  of  honor ;  among 
them  were  Lord  Currie,  Mr.  Iddings,  and  Colonel 
Needham,  looking  like  a  pale-brown  ghost. 

Just  as  the  gun  carriage  had  passed,  at  a 
sudden  unexplained  noise  —  I  beheve  it  was 
merely  the  knocking  over  of  a  chair  —  the 
panic-stricken  crowd  surged  into  the  street,  broke 
up  the  procession,  and  nearly  swept  King  Victor 
off  his  feet. 

There  was  a  moment  of  sickening  suspense  ; 
the  gun  carriage  halted;  the  King  drew  his 
sword,  his  kinsmen  pressed  close  about  him  as  if 
to  protect  him.  Then  in  the  opposite  balcony  a 
tall  handsome  woman  dressed  in  mourning  rose 
to  her  feet,  and  leaning  well  over  the  balcony 
waved  her  handkerchief  with  a  majestic  gesture 
that  quelled  the  panic.  The  crowd  understood 
the  signal  to  mean  "  No  danger  I  "  The  women 
in  the  neighboring  windows  began  to  clap  their 
hands.  Meanwhile  the  gun  carriage  waited,  the 
young  King  stood  at  bay,  startled,  but  ready 
for  whatever  might  happen.     At  the  clapping  of 

349 


ROMA  BEATA 

hands,  the  groans,  the  cries  of  "  Anarchists  I  '* 
"  A  bomb !  "  "  Traitors !  "  ceased,  the  insensate 
pushing  and  jostling  stopped,  and  before  one  could 
believe  it  possible  order  was  restored,  and  the 
procession  took  up  its  line  of  march.  I  never 
saw  a  finer  example  of  one  individual  of  nerve 
and  presence  of  mind  controlling  the  blind  panic 
of  a  crowd. 

Late,  late  in  the  procession  marched  a  small 
band  of  old  Garibaldians.  We  recognized  our 
friend  from  Nemi  hobbling  among  them. 

"  They  should  not  have  been  put  off  at  the  end 
of  the  procession,  along  with  the  tailors  and  shoe- 
makers of  Rome.  If  it  had  not  been  for  them 
there  would  be  no  United  Kingdom  of  Italy 
to-day,"  J.  said. 

"  Policy,  my  friend,  pohcy ! "  said  Patsy,  his 
eyes  a  little  dim  at  the  sight  of  the  faded  red 
shirts  and  the  broken  men  who  wore  them. 

"  Nobody,"  Patsy  confessed,  "  feels  the  charm 
of  gold  lace  more  than  I,  but  did  you  notice  how 
well  the  plain  black  coat  of  the  American 
Charge  d' Affaires  looked  among  all  those  glitter- 
ing liveries  of  kings  ?  The  sight  of  it  made  me 
feel  rather  proud  of  being  an  American  citizen  I " 
.  We  waited  in  our  balcony  to  see  the  return  to 

350 


LAST  DAYS   IN  ROME 

the  palace.  Patsy,  who  went  to  the  Pantheon, 
where  the  funeral  serv^ices  were  held,  reported 
them  as  admirably  short  and  impressive. 

"  Throughout  the  ceremony,"  he  said,  "  Queen 
Margaret  was  given  the  place  of  honor.  At  the 
end,  just  as  they  were  about  to  leave  the  church, 
she  made  a  deep  courtesy  to  her  son,  and  stood 
back  while  the  young  King  and  his  wife  went  out 
before  her.  Think  what  that  means !  Queen 
Margaret,  from  her  fifteenth  year  the  first  lady  in 
the  land,  entered  the  church  Queen  of  Italy  and 
left  it  Queen  Dowager.  With  that  courtesy  she 
stepped  from  the  first  to  the  second  place  in  the 
kingdom." 

"  As  long  as  she  lives  she  will  be  first  in  every 
true  Italian  heart  I  " 

"  There  's  the  rub  I     She  should  not  be." 
"  That  may  be  true  ;  she  will  be  all  the  same  I " 
There  was  a  sudden  sound  of  bugles,  the  clat- 
ter of  horses'  feet.     The  King's  guard,  picked 
men,  every  one  of  them  over  six  feet  tall,  came 
dashing  up  the  street  to  the  crisp  music  of  the 
royal  march.     In  their  midst  we  caught  a  glimpse 
of  King  Victor,  in  a  closed  carriage,  on  his  way 
to  take  possession  of  the  Quirinal  Palace. 
The  King  is  dead.     Long  live  the  King  I 

351 


ROMA  BEATA 

August  14. 

It  is  written  that  our  last  days  in  Rome  shall 
not  hang  heavy  on  our  hands ;  emotion  follows 
emotion  !  Last  evening  J.  went  to  the  station  to 
see  Patsy  off  on  the  special  train  provided  for 
Queen  Elena's  sister  ( married  to  the  Russian 
Grand  Duke)  and  the  other  royal  and  distin- 
guished personages  who  came  to  the  funeral. 
They  had  all  stayed  on  to  hear  King  Victor's 
maiden  speech  to  his  Parliament  —  which,  by  the 
way,  was  capital ;  he  spoke  of  his  mother  in  a  man- 
ner that  went  to  the  hearts  of  all  good  sons  and 
daughters.  Patsy  told  us,  with  the  young  news- 
paper man's  air  of  supreme  knowledge,  that  he  had 
it  on  the  best  authority  that  the  King  wrote  his 
own  speech.  I  believe  this,  more fi'om  internal  than 
external  evidence  ;  it  rings  true,  not  like  an  address 
prepared  by  a  minister  for  a  monarch  to  deliver. 

Patsy  being  gone,  we  thought  to  set  about 
closing  up  our  affairs  in  earnest,  when  this  morn- 
ing arrives  a  note  written  on  the  back  of  an  old 
envelope  in  his  hand. 

"  Send  me  some  soup !  I  can't  stand  this  hos- 
pital diet.  1  am  a  bit  shaken  up  by  the  collision 
at  Castel  Giubileo  last  night.  Nothing  serious 
in  my  condition,  except  the  appetite." 

352 


LAST  DAYS   IN  ROME 

The  scrawl  was  dated  from  the  hospital  of  San 
Giacomo,  where  Filomena  s  brother  has  been  a 
patient  for  a  month  past.  I  packed  a  basket 
with  provisions  and  drove  directly  to  the  hospital, 
taking  Filomena  with  me.  We  stopped  on  om* 
way  to  see  Dr.  Massimo,  who  gave  us  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  the  house  surgeon.  The  porter 
of  the  hospital  took  in  my  card  and  note  of  intro- 
duction while  we  waited  in  the  lodge.  As  we 
got  out  of  the  cab  Filomena  behaved  rather 
strangely ;  she  asked  the  gobbo,  our  cabman,  to 
bring  in  the  basket,  and  when  he  set  it  down  on 
the  not  too  clean  pavement,  she  let  it  remain 
where  he  put  it. 

'*  Please  to  take  the  basket  off  the  pavement,'* 
I  said. 

"  Excuse  me,  Signora,  it  will  be  better  to  wait 
till  the  porter  returns  and  ask  him  either  to  carry 
the  basket  himself  or  to  send  another  with  it. 
These  people  are  very  suspicious ;  they  might 
think  that  /  was  trying  to  smuggle  something 
into  the  hospital.  The  idea  is,  of  course,  ridicu- 
lous, but  these  hospital  employes  are  strangely 
suspicious  people." 

At  that  moment  an  enormous  red-haired 
woman  wearing  a  checked  apron  came  towards 

23  353 


ROMA  BEATA 

us  ;  she  spoke  pleasantly  to  Filomena.  "  Well, 
my  girl,  I  hear  that  your  brother  is  getting  better 
fast.  Ah  I  he  has  a  good  sister."  As  she  spoke 
the  giantess  enveloped  Filomena  in  a  capacious 
embrace.  Beginning  at  the  girl's  slender  throat 
she  passed  her  great  arms  and  hands  down  her 
body  to  the  very  feet,  feeling  her  all  over,  press- 
ing the  light  cotton  skirts  so  close  about  her  that 
she  looked  like  a  Tanagra  figurine.  Though 
Filomena  endured  the  searching  embrace  with 
composure,  I  saw  her  glance  at  me,  and  there  is 
no  denying  that  she  turned  scarlet. 

"  Nothing  contraband  this  morning,  eh  ?  "  said 
the  good-natured  giantess. 

"  This  is  my  mistress,"  Filomena  interposed, 
anxious  to  shield  herself  under  my  aegis.  "  She 
has  brought  some  refreshments  to  a  gentleman 
who  was  hurt  in  the  railroad  accident  last  night. 
She  has  a  letter  from  Dr.  Massimo." 

The  giantess  bowed  to  me  pohtely.  "There 
w411  be  no  difficulty,  that  will  arrange  itself,"  she 
said.  "  Won't  you  be  seated.  Madam,  till  the 
doctor  comes  ?  It  is  against  the  rule  to  allow  any 
provisions  to  pass  without  a  special  permission 
from  the  house  physician.  This  pretty  one  does 
not  see  the  use  of  that  rule,  do  you,  my  dear  ?  " 

354, 


LAST  DAYS  IN  ROME 

If  looks  could  kill,  the  giantess  would  have 
died,  slain  by  the  rage  in  Filomena's  beautiful 
eyes. 

I  found  Patsy,  smelling  horribly  of  carbolic 
acid,  in  a  small  iron  bed,  a  chart  of  his  injuries  — 
slight  but  numerous  —  fixed  at  the  head  of 
the  cot.  His  powers  of  speech  had  not  been 
impaired. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come.  Have  you  brought 
the  soup,  and  some  decent  wine  ?  There  's  the 
jolliest  sister  who  takes  care  of  me  —  that  tall 
one  with  the  red  cheeks  —  isn't  she  a  corker  ? 
She  will  heat  the  broth  and  cool  the  wine." 

I  asked  the  sister  how  long  she  would  be 
obliged  to  keep  her  troublesome  patient.  She 
said,  "  Only  a  few  days ;  he  might  possibly  be 
moved  to-morrow."  That  was  a  hint  for  us  to 
take  him  home,  which  I  offered  to  do.  Patsy 
would  not  hear  of  this. 

"  Think  of  the  copy  I  am  getting,"  he  said. 
"  I  know  more  about  the  Italian  medical  profes- 
sion, nurses,  and  hospitals  than  I  could  have 
learned  in  a  year's  study  outside.  I  have  notes 
for  three  articles  already." 

"  What  are  your  views  ?  " 

"  The  doctors   are  clever  fellows,  the  nurses 

355 


HOMA  BEATA 

angels,  the  hospital  one  hundred  years  behind 
the  times." 

When  he  had  finished  his  soup  Patsy  told  me 
about  the  accident. 

"  At  Castel  Giubileo,  about  eight  miles  out 
from  Rome,  another  train  ran  into  ours  and  the 
two  telescoped.  Fortunately  I  was  in  the  last  of 
the  wrecked  carriages  —  that  was  bad  enough.  I 
can't  talk  about  the  other  people  yet,  the  news- 
papers will  give  you  all  the  dreadful  details.  In 
our  carriage  there  was  only  a  fat  deputy,  the 
Honorable  Somebody,  and  myself.  After  the 
crash  I  found  that  I  w^as  pinned  to  the  floor  by 
a  beam  and  could  not  stir  hand  or  foot.  Pres- 
ently a  guard  came  along  ;  he  said  we  were  in  no 
danger,  and  that  we  must  lie  still  till  they  could 
dig  us  out.  I  fancy  I  fainted  or  went  to  sleep 
then,  for  quite  suddenly  it  was  dawn,  and  the 
deputy  was  crying  out  that  he  was  dying  and 
should  never  see  his  Amelia  again.  Then  I  saw 
a  man  come  clambering  over  the  wrecked  smok- 
ing ruins  of  the  cars  towards  us.  Somehow  he 
managed  to  reach  down  through  the  debris 
and  get  the  deputy  by  the  hand. 

"  *  Courage,  courage,  Onorevole,  thou  art 
saved  1 '  he  said  in  the  joUiest  voice.     A  little 

356 


LAST  DAYS  IN  ROME 

later  we  heard  his  voice  again,  giving  ordei's  to 
the  men  he  had  brought  to  dig  us  out ;  we  were 
buried  deep  under  the  spHntered  car  ahead  of  us. 
As  soon  as  I  found  myself  in  the  blessed  cool  air, 
I  looked  to  see  what  sort  of  man  had  saved  me 
from  that  pit  of  hell ;  it  was  the  King." 

"  The  King  ?  are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  will  find  it  all  in  the  papers  if  you 
don't  believe  me.  The  Grand  Duchess  sent  one 
of  her  suite  directly  to  the  palace  to  tell  her  sister. 
Queen  Elena,  that  she  was  not  hurt,  before  she 
should  hear  of  the  accident  from  any  other 
source. 

"  The  messenger  waked  the  King  and  Queen 
— ^^it  was  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  they  were 
asleep  —  told  them  what  had  happened  and  that 
a  relief  train  was  being  made  up.  Those  young 
people  dressed,  and  ran  all  the  way  from  the 
Quirinal  to  the  railroad  station  —  it  must  be 
close  on  a  mile  —  hoping  to  catch  the  relief  train  ; 
they  were  too  late;  it  had  already  gone  when 
they  arrived.  Outside  the  station  they  took  the 
first  cab  they  met,  and  started  to  drive  the  eight 
miles  to  Castel  Giubileo.  At  the  Porta  Salaria 
the  cab  was  overtaken  by  one  of  the  royal  car- 
riages from  the  Quirinal  stables,  which  brought 

357 


ROMA  BEATA 

them  the  rest  of  the  way.  As  the  Deputy  and 
I  were  in  the  last  of  the  wrecked  carriages,  we 
were  less  hurt  than  anybody  else,  I  fancy ;  we 
certainly  were  the  last  attended  to  ;  and  I  saw 
the  dreadful  business  through.  The  Queen 
worked  over  the  wounded  women,  trotting  from 
one  to  the  other,  doing  everything  she  could  to 
make  them  comfortable.  At  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning  the  Mayor  of  Rome  and  some  other 
old  fogies  came  lumbering  up  in  a  landeau. 
They  met  the  King,  black  with  smoke  and 
grime,  just  starting  to  drive  back  to    town." 

"  A  man  of  action,  like  his  father  and  grand- 
father before  him,"  I  said. 

"  A  chip  of  the  old  block,"  cried  Patsy.  "  She 
is  admirable  ;  if  ever  I  saw  a  pair  of  lovers,  it  is 
those  two  — •  that  must  be  the  best  of  it  all." 

The  tall  sister  evidently  thought  that  Patsy 
was  talking  too  much,  so  I  took  my  leave.  If  1 
had  stayed  ten  minutes  I  too  should  have  seen 
the  young  King  and  Queen  as  Filomena  saw 
them.  At  three  o'clock  they  visited  the  wounded 
at  San  Giacomo's. 

Filomena  told  me  about  it  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  Ah,  Signora,  it  is  a  pity  you  were  in  such 
a  hurry.     While  I  was  talking  with  my  brother, 

358 


LAST  DAYS   IN   ROME 

who  should  come  into  the  ward  but  the  King 
and  Queen !  They  spoke  to  all  the  people  who 
had  been  hurt  in  the  accident.  The  Queen  is 
tall  —  oh,  very  talll  with  great  dark  eyes  and 
such  hair,  twice  as  much  as  I  have.  I  wish  you 
had  seen  her  dress,  Signora,  it  was  of  white  silk 
and  lace,  and  her  hat !  It  was  in  the  last  fash- 
ion, and  quite  the  prettiest  hat  I  ever  saw. 
When  the  sick  people  saw  who  had  come  to 
visit  them,  what  do  you  think  they  did  ?  In 
spite  of  the  doctors  and  the  sisters,  those  patients 
sat  up  in  their  beds  and  cheered  and  clapped 
their  hands.  I  think  they  were  perfectly  right  to 
do  so  ;  even  the  very  sick  must  have  been  made 
better  by  the  sight  of  those  royal  spouses,  and 
the  sound  of  the  evvivas!" 

August  31. 

Our  last  day  in  Rome !  The  trunks  were  sent 
to  the  station  this  morning;  they  have  been 
forwarded  direct  to  Genoa,  where  we  take  ship 
for  home  on  the  10th  of  September.  We 
intend  making  a  slight  detour,  going  by  way 
of  Oberammergau  (where  our  seats  and  lodgings 
are  engaged)  to  see  the  Passion  Play.  The 
few  pieces  of  furniture  that  remain  —  our  beds, 
some  chairs,  the  dinner  table  and  service  —  will  be 

359 


ROMA  BEATA 

taken  away  to-morrow  morning.  We  consider 
it  quite  a  feat  to  break  up  housekeeping  after 
nearly  seven  years  in  the  Palazzo  Rusticucci,  and 
to  sleep  the  last  night  in  Rome  under  our  own 
roof.  Very  busy  all  day  saying  good-by.  In 
the  morning  Ignazio  carried  away  the  last  load 
of  our  beloved  plants.  Before  he  came  1  gathered 
all  the  flowers,  and  took  an  armful  of  roses, 
oleanders,  and  jessamine  to  the  cemetery  in  mem- 
ory of  the  dear  one  who  made  this  Eternal  City 
a  second  home  to  me  —  who  shall  say  to  how 
many  others  ? 

Sora  Giulia  came  in  just  after  the  trunks  had 
gone,  with  some  ravishing  old  lace  and  embroid- 
ery. She  is  genuinely  sorry  we  are  going ;  we 
have  been  good  customers.  As  to  Nena,  tough 
old  Spartan,  she  is  nearer  weeping  than  she 
likes. 

Patsy,  discharged  from  the  hospital  this  morn- 
ing, came  in  to  report  himself.  He  had  talked 
so  much  with  nurses,  doctors,  and  patients,  been 
so  busy  getting  his  notes  together,  that  a  fever 
set  in  which  kept  him  at  San  Giacomo's  ten 
days  after  his  bruises  were  healed.  He  confesses 
that  it  was  his  own  fault !  Patsy  stayed  on 
to  dine,  so  we  had   a  little  feast,  and,  thanks 

360 


LAST   DAYS   IN   ROME 

to  him,  were  able  to  make  merry  to  the  last 
—  just  what  I  wished! 

"  Do  you  know,"  Patsy  said,  "  that  you  made  a 
great  mistake  in  the  name  of  your  palace  ?  It 
has  always  been  known  to  the  initiated  as  the 
Palazzo  Accoramboni.  Whoever  told  you  the 
name  was  Rusticucci  was  no  better  than  a 
fool." 

"  He  was  a  very  vdse  man.  To-morrow,  when 
we  shall  have  gone,  the  palace  will  return  to 
its  old  name ;  consequently  we  shall  be  the  only 
people  who  have  ever  lived  in  the  Palazzo  Rusti- 
cucci !  "  Don't  you  think  my  argument  a  good 
one? 

After  Patsy  left  we  took  our  last  look  at 
the  terrace.  It  was  full  moon,  as  on  that  first 
night ;  the  piazza,  the  fountains,  the  colonnade, 
the  obelisk  were  all  there,  just  as  we  found 
them.  The  terrace,  which  J.  made  as  fragrant  and 
lovely  for  me  as  the  hanging  gardens  of  Babylon, 
is  again  as  bare  as  my  hand.  Even  the  red  rose 
of  the  monsignore  which  we  found  here  has 
been  sent  with  other  favorite  flowers  to  a  friend. 
I  do  not  think  that  black-a-vised  French  priest, 
the  head  of  the  fraternity,  would  have  cared  for 
it,  and  it  was  the  beginning  of  all  our  joy  I     In 

361 


ROMA  BEATA 

the  farthest  comer  of  the  terrace  I  saw  a  small 
dark  object  moving  slowly  across  the  floor. 

"  It  is  Jeremy  Bentham  !  "  said  J.  We  had 
almost  forgotten  our  poor  tortoise,  the  least 
demonstrative  of  all  our  pets.  We  shall  leave 
him  and  the  nightingale  at  the  Spanish  Academy 
to-morrow  before  going  to  the  station.  The  bells 
of  St.  Peter's  rang  twelve  before  we  came  down. 
We  looked  at  all  the  familiar  points,  Soracte, 
Monte  Cavo,  the  Castle  of  Sant'  Angelo,  and 
last  and  longest  at  St.  Peter's  before  we  said 
"  Addio,  Roma  Beata  !  " 

This  is  my  last  letter  from  Rome.  There  are 
many  more  things  I  want  to  say  to  you,  but 
I  must  leave  you  and  say  good-night.  Pan  the 
nightingale  wants  to  go  to  sleep,  and  is  piping 
piteous  appeals  to  me  to  go  away  and  leave  him 
at  peace  in  the  pleasant  darkness.  Another  little 
pipe.     Good-night  1 


863 


"i^^^ 

H^/' 


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